"Dissection"

"Dissection"

You were my reason
for my pleading with life;
believing that time 
should not push forward
while moments like this happened.
Wished to stand between reaction
and initial intent.
What would not be
we would invent.
That's why it felt real.
What was felt
and what I feel
are as blurred a line as any
and the stitches have not healed within me yet.
You might regret,
but please don't relent.
Just tell me:

This Is Not Love,
is it?
This Is Separation. 

Distracted by elation.
Slipped behind the blind fixation.
Foundation of fissures.
Foolishly running with scissors
until dismembered in defeat.
Do you remember how discreet
your retreat wasn't?
Was it enough to see
the least exposed part of me
to make that your excuse?
Left me laying here in languish
to tend and bandage through the anguish.
How does that not spell abuse?

In your truce
and your soft words
heard as familiar
as the first long conversing
are poorly hidden hints of rehearsing.
Your aim to nurse the situation
through contrite tone and dissertation
Made this feel more like visitation
moments before the door would close.
Who noticed your voice
from the choice of dozens?
I came on risk
and you left me nothing.
Would not desist.
No.
We both felt something.
Just mind your wrist.
You swing blades while running
and your wind bends metal.
Before you swing,
let's get this settled:

This Is Not Love,
is it?
This Is Displacement.

Less than sufficient replacement
running in place with hope
for what was not as it seemed.
Distance of the dreamer.
The believer left benign
maligned and mangled
in what we both said we wanted.
Still haunted by what was heard.
Words that cleave the knees and ankles
left me sprawling,
had me crawling
as a sinner to the altar
but I was meant to be sacrificed.

From this height,
the light revealed the vision.

This Is Not Love.
This Is Incision.

Made your decision
without the degree of precision
needed should you operate.
Could have at least thought to sedate
before you grabbed the scalpel.
I've been trampled.
I've been robbed.
Shrugged in scrubs
to finish the job.
Would pull myself up with the handle
but as we kissed,
my wrists dismantled
now rest on the mantle in mockery.
We were hypocrisy
and I fought to force it
but can't fight the forceps.
You have me exposed.
Went to reach for the rose
as if there were no thorns.
Thread and tissue torn
and I still cling to the illusion.
I leave each lodged in my skin
because I fear the profusion.
I long for you
but you're hurting me.
You brush
but I rush with some urgency.
You push away then scream emergency.
Why the delay?
Why not?
Just murder me

Because This Is Not Love.
No.

This Is Surgery.

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz

"What Remains"

"What Remains"

Remnants rarely wash away
time that we have tossed away
like fray against gutters
clogged and cluttered
barely able to muster sufficient drain
so that the stains at least would rinse
whilst the pain remains
ever so plain.

Uncommon in moment
yet common enough
to be snuffed from headlines.
There is a deadline for breaking news
but no limit on the view from a block away
where you were.
There you lay.
Helpless.
Helped less by this world
and the decisions you've made in it
expedited by thoughts of you
often diminished
until magnified in circumstantial retrospect.

Guilt has reminded me
how routinely we respect the dead
and think nothing of the living.
We disregard the giving
and downplay kind gestures
but are never far from lecture
when life pulls you back into the mud.

Our hands are much dirtier
than that of yours, brother.
I promise you that much.

To touch your shoulder
or bring you in after handshakes
for a hug and a kind word
I've unfortunately heard and observed
more than initiated.
What I have left of my own regret
will not grace stanza
or the podium facing the congregation.
Our conversations will not carry
past the casket.
Thoughts have outlasted
any words I would think to say anyway.

When life exits,
entering in squalls
are the calls from distant contacts
looking for contact
like an abrupt breach in contract
where the clause clearly states
that they can only sedate their guilt
with lies they've built
stitched together with stories
of how much you've meant to them

but until they can say your name,
you're "Him."

What you mean to what is heard
in contrived words won't matter.
Makeshift remorse will run its course
and contrite times will shatter
and be swept away the next day

but on this day,

I don't want to stall
or recall
or remember
what I'll never forget.
Just promise those who loved you most
that you left with no regret
because even if you did,
know that we're not done with you yet

and we never will be.

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz

In Everlasting Memory of Gerard Howard.

Rest Well.

I Hope That You Have Found Every Measure Of Peace In The Next Life That You Couldn't Find In This Life.

"Directions Home"

"Directions Home" 

You've lost your way.
It's hard to say.
Thought we'd play
but no more today.
Remembered you far away.
Trouble was fun then.
Could run when things got heavy.
Not like we weren't ready really.
There's just too steep a price
to let you feel me.
Kneeling in a pout.
Wouldn't think to kick you out.
Whenever I search for doubt,
you look up,
open your mouth
and I release it there...

I care for how you may take it.
You lay before me naked
and I'm not feeling the vibe.
Not initial. The residual.
Events that ensue critical thinking.
Enough blinking
and that sinking feeling finds me.
Your arms find their place behind me
yet I blindly pull away from hugs
with hands that have traced
and tugged you closer.
Lead you over after travel
through the raised and broken gravel
of these streets best meant for walking.
Talking in exclusive tone
as we'd roam
when we shouldn't be alone. 

Be a long way away from me.
Don't ask me if
I said that in sincerity.
Verily I say
that I'm the most irresistible
bad idea that you've had up to this point
and you're the most decadent
vial of vindictive venom
yet to veer far from my lips.
So much that it slowly kills
when I look to rinse with every sip.
Mind foggy from trips
taken with vague intent
to the inquisitive, anyways
just to buy time
for the latter means of a few days.
How many ways we've mixed these wires.... 

.....tired truly.
Knew we would ignore
how fast the time passed.
I'm saying,
one of us should remain cognizant,
right?
Deeply draped, disfigured sights
indulged upon at night
bound to drag far to the right
where we crash,
fight
and yell
over how it was all derailed.
Frail in retrospect.
You fancy your fear of neglect
and I'm still here 

trying to make crooked lines intersect. 

We reflect progress so hard against the grain
that only confusion and pain
can serve as some sort of foundation
to halt the speed as all
is sure to come crashing down
so turn around
and don't look down
until the porch looks just like yours.
I'll lock this door
after retrieving your spare key.
Not today.
Please.
Go away.
I've nothing left to say.
Save my time:

Find your way. 

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz