"Bleached, Faded..."

"Bleached, Faded..."

Found the middle of our hottest days.
Forgot then remembered how to pray.
Cold sip sitting on the porch.
Meals would be arriving soon.
Said we'd be ready for the change.
Just waiting to see a purple moon.
Impatience rose and inhibition moved.
Nasty sex in the last room.
Air conditioned to chase the steam.
This must be exactly as it seems
or I at least would like to lay and dream
as long as I can.
Thoughts and plans.
Thought we'd planned our getaway
from less purposed days.
Figured out what words to say.
Practiced til blue in the face.
Recited then rewrite it
then recite it once or twice more.
Knees and palms on the floor.
Taking me amid shoes and jeans.
Twice that night before games.
Love and Lust
and all the same.
Insane how much I thought we knew.
Convinced that we truly grew.
Couldn't see the dark for the colors.
Concentrate on one.
Ignore the other.
The end smothered by hopes and wishes
and the wettest kisses
on lips so syrupy and viscous.
Fast forward from then for a reason.
Never really paid mind to the seasons
until my desperate case made for overtime.
Hoped it would work out over time
and it did
but
not how we expected.
Requiem for the neglected.
Accepted you as what I knew I wanted
while becoming what you don't deserve.
You get on my nerves.
How I wish the swerve
was much more deliberate.
Delivered it as "remember when"
between friends
still fawning over more than.
More than some years since
and a stolen glimpse
still invokes the reminisce
but the lights aren't as bright
and that moon is still white
and you still can't see
past yourself without me.
The biggest reason to forever doubt we. 

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz

"Reservoir"

"Reservoir"

Lower than tone.
Your incessant screams on repeat
No higher than the seat
you were convinced is your throne.
Down deeper than bones
archeology can't dig up.
Promise that when I sit up,
you won't force me to get up
as I am not guaranteed
to be solid when I land.
The pilot has plans premeditated
but the free falling
can only hope to be sedated
before smacking the pavement. 

Low like the thoughts
that accompany depression.
Lasting impression.
If left to your discretion,
this session would be brief.
The conventional discomfort
that mixes well with grief
and a hint of disbelief
has shaped your view of me.
Don't latch on to everything you see. 

Down like knees over the glass
and the shrapnel
with hands tightly clasped
and pain ravaged eyes to the sky
begging for something whole
deserving less than half full.
Emotion the handful
that escapes when you squeeze.
Slow leak on snow peaks
dripping down into the valley. 

Lower than trash in the dark alley.
Had today's dinner in my savvy
state of manufactured grace
but a lid across the face
and a knee to the gut later
and I'm no more fit
than I was when I begged for favors.
Surviving in the distance
by staying that far away
from the surface.
My purpose set
to be ignored and stepped over. 

Who is lower than me? 

Maybe she is. 

Flung to the wall
or deep into the bed
head down
drowning sound
despite deliberate defiance
until somber silence.
A sullen science
one must be at their lowest
to voluntarily lust after. 

Who is lower than she? 

Maybe he is. 

Pressed to the hood
observed in a hood
objectified and hunted in the hood
perceived as commonplace for no good.
Headbutt against wood and metal.
Testified that he was known to mettle
with the bright lights,
sirens
and shiny medals
sworn to protect.
No word of the neglect
to duty in dubious derelict
until incited and blown over
by people forced to love living lower. 

How low can one be... 

Lower than the stool
one stood over
tipped over
kicked over
by the tips of toes that longed to float
pulled too far down not to choke
provoked and
tired and
hopeless.
No guess unless defined
by the much more deranged
as simply a disturbed mind
that lacked social interaction.
Brisk, surprised reaction
without sufficient dedication to memory. 

Who are we?
Depth can't recall.
We were taught from the crawl
to finish on our feet
but when forced to our seat,
we are closer to hands and knees
than we would be
had there been incentive
to remain standing
without the painful landing. 

Low like the dust.
Down like the gear
too worn from the rust
to trust with progression.
The blurred lines between
recession,
obsession,
depression
and regression.
With an ear to the ground,
do you even hear a sound
from me? 

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz

"Darker Ribbons"

"Darker Ribbons"

Billowing across her face....
.... pillow soft those lips I taste
whenever we get close.
Subtle scent that dissipates.
Funk that cannot be erased.
I cannot ignore her chase.
Obvious as when one craves
what they aren't ready for.
Seated ready for a new dimension
but intervention looms..

Not like she found me
speaking loudly in these quiet rooms.
Not like I found her
through the shroud that is this cloudy room.
Not like I'm able to easily
detect her perfume anymore.
Either way,
time extends the day
when she opens the door 

but air does not embrace me. 

This is too much.
I need distance
but I can't take it:
Too much distance.
Close to touch as blood may rush
but I may choke. 

Too much smoke.

Planned I have to tell the truth
but when lips part,
low hanging fruit
silences tone and inflection.
Peach flavored sweet confection
dangling in front of the tongue
that cares enough to tell her.
Days I would regret her
end up with us feeling better
doing what we wish...
...dish served warm beneath covers
but my lover loves her habit
just as much if not more.
Not so lonely when that door creaks these days.

Told her it would kill in hope she'd panic
but instead,
she raised her head,
said "It's organic"
as if she planned it. 

Don't understand it.

Thought something was wrong with me.
Just before she'd come for me
and after she'd cum for me
she'd reach out for some comforting
but not without consistent light.
Not without a cough each night.
Not a day salvaged in hope
that we would rest without a fight.
It's not right but we're not wrong.
Annoying like your favorite song
drawn slow through ears.
My recent fear indecent
just for what it means:

It would seem I fear for health
but like the rich still chasing wealth,
I run after the feeling
without revealing the shame. 

We are the same:

She's aware of a tension so fresh.
Strands of her hair
like the grain of her flesh
enveloped by this barrier.
My heart is unfit to carry her
but what love won't raise
lust will hold down.
What will be in the end
won't be known now
or much later, hopefully.
I hope that we can heal.

Broken bricks can build nothing solid.
This love is real
but love this violent
is fatal when passive. 

We don't have much beneath these ashes...

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz

"Stones Against The River"

"Stones Against The River" 

Sunset significant to slower pace.
I swear,
we've been giving chase
for months worth days now.
How we've seemingly drawn closer
is a farce to perception.
Distance will not yield
no matter how high we build
and scale to bear proof.
The roof was once a sky
for eyes that looked past never
giving chase to forever. 

Dust and smoke.
What was left of the path
provoked by expediency.
Decency measured by time
instead of sensibly by tread.
Concepts crashing, cloudy,
dry and blood red.
Well to do is dead
and the clearer head hangs lifeless.
Began living less as if
such sacrifice would bring proximity.
What sense are we
if to be,
we neglect the need to see
the circle that will not cease? 

It takes a crease in time.
A welcome wrinkle in monotony
to draw away from hopeless
and peer into possibly.
Positivity aside,
is it the ride or the destination?
Wherein rests this fixation?
Is there elation in the pretentious
chase set forth to merely thrill us?
Are we at peace with just contentious
to the point where progression kills
if we would dare look to reach for it?
Is the never ending race the true forfeit?
Can we even afford it anymore? 

Pretty thoughts are novelties
that time will see corrode and rust.
Must melds with the mold
and this path, crackling and old
with each day will just erode
until only stories are told
in our boastful, bold tone
of how close to home we truly were.
The scene observed
better seen than heard
should be seen then heard
lest perceived absurd
or old
as tales over tea and whiskey.
To miss me
and none of the experience
would mean far less in respect
to what we've claimed in this instance.
To miss you
but none of the moments trapped in time
would barely conceal the rift
caused by this paradigm.
Can't reason with a rhyme
so out of place but not erased.
We just don't have the time
so in spite of the risk, 

we chase. 

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz