Save room for the commas
and incomplete expressions
somewhat heavy for the conscious hand.
Given to the thoughts
I've kept secretive
like contraband
trapped within the heart.
Emotion is where it starts
but I need more productive ends.
Suggestions from friends abound
at least until I look around
and see what slips.
It's falling down
and
barely resembles charity
when
confusion and hilarity mesh.
Voices that calm and caress
are
cracked and calloused now
and
chipping away at the brow
first
I guess because it hurts to think.
Each blink a recurrent notification.
A stab of recollection.
Sharp jab in one direction.
Denounce in flat inflection.
Homemade torture plainly
and although I see it mainly,
I am ashamed to realize
that my closed eyes
do not facilitate the dodging.
Quiet center dislodging but
barely even a frown
to make public my defeat.
This process I repeat
a handful of times
before leaning
beside the door after sweeping.
Fed the belief
that leaping and weeping
share the tip of one blade
so I retreat to the shade
with
what little progress is made
of thought.
Stricken without passion displayed
so those ideas delayed
are now just wishes for
which I've fought less for
than against those that mock me.
Was not born to be punchline
but I'd rather hunch
and hide face
than to punch my way
into a place
where I'm convinced things matter.
Discerning which things matter
enough to counteract
before my surface cracks
under their
deliberate
chiseled
drilling completely.
Discreet disguised as
"uniquely different"
while their public personal blows
punch
and poke
and push me past my limit
but we live it well.
Presenting frail
and concealing inner strength
because I'm tired.
Concerned less with the act
than with the length
then I retire.
Saw that pretty girl
whose color twirls when she walks.
She's my desire
but if honest,
she's the furthest comet
so I squint to see her fire.
Went to grade school
with the jock
who pitches rocks
and asks professor favors
so that he can play later today
after inhaling vapors.
Thought that we were cool
and I his tutor
but I'm just the one he picks on
less.
Algebra has him stressed
and he needs answers for the test.
At my best I go unnoticed.
At my worst they're unaware.
The year is over soon
and I think I'll grow out my hair.
My jacket
and
my yearbook signed
plus a completed pair of notebooks
that have recorded
every good
and bad
and ugly
and awesome moment
between classes
and the clashes
over action
and words never said.
Words that I swore
would be read to her
before the year is out
but not a whisper
nor a shout
would push between written letters.
Just overheard that she will transfer
next semester.
I hope to do much better
next year.
Written By: Devin Joseph Metz
and although I see it mainly,
I am ashamed to realize
that my closed eyes
do not facilitate the dodging.
Quiet center dislodging but
barely even a frown
to make public my defeat.
This process I repeat
a handful of times
before leaning
beside the door after sweeping.
Fed the belief
that leaping and weeping
share the tip of one blade
so I retreat to the shade
with
what little progress is made
of thought.
Stricken without passion displayed
so those ideas delayed
are now just wishes for
which I've fought less for
than against those that mock me.
Was not born to be punchline
but I'd rather hunch
and hide face
than to punch my way
into a place
where I'm convinced things matter.
Discerning which things matter
enough to counteract
before my surface cracks
under their
deliberate
chiseled
drilling completely.
Discreet disguised as
"uniquely different"
while their public personal blows
punch
and poke
and push me past my limit
but we live it well.
Presenting frail
and concealing inner strength
because I'm tired.
Concerned less with the act
than with the length
then I retire.
Saw that pretty girl
whose color twirls when she walks.
She's my desire
but if honest,
she's the furthest comet
so I squint to see her fire.
Went to grade school
with the jock
who pitches rocks
and asks professor favors
so that he can play later today
after inhaling vapors.
Thought that we were cool
and I his tutor
but I'm just the one he picks on
less.
Algebra has him stressed
and he needs answers for the test.
At my best I go unnoticed.
At my worst they're unaware.
The year is over soon
and I think I'll grow out my hair.
My jacket
and
my yearbook signed
plus a completed pair of notebooks
that have recorded
every good
and bad
and ugly
and awesome moment
between classes
and the clashes
over action
and words never said.
Words that I swore
would be read to her
before the year is out
but not a whisper
nor a shout
would push between written letters.
Just overheard that she will transfer
next semester.
I hope to do much better
next year.
Written By: Devin Joseph Metz
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