"The Extent"
Ms. Giving,
I miss giving you
reasons to smile
all while
chasing previous misgivings
outside of our extending away;
especially to say
that keeping them at bay
is a price I'd surely pay
to keep that smile.
That grin.
That curve above your chin,
Ms. Giving
that rests firm
between turns
involving shots of gin
and those backshots
again
and
again.
How I've missed the way we'd sin,
Ms. Giving
but misgiving made the path
murky.
Dank.
Dreary.
Can you hear me,
Ms. Giving?
I pray that the attention
I desire from you
is finally steeped in reciprocity.
So much you are owed
from me.
Less to see
for so much to say
until "anyway"
abruptly ends the debate.
Ms. Giving,
even amid the swell of misgiving,
you would always shoot straight.
I
hope
that I'm not too late.
I'd hazard the inquiry
but I admittedly fear what those
implied misgivings
will offer in response to me.
I see,
Ms. Giving
and always have;
often without base realization
of course
unfortunately
which I'm sure
without doubt
has only served to feed your misgivings.
Ms. Giving:
Martyr as one might presume
that I now lay beside in gloom
doomed by my once
fixable shortcomings
less likely to exhume
in a loving
that was less routine,
far frequent
and passionately inconsistent.
Inconsolable as I am
in lieu of inconsiderate musing.
Ms. Giving gave it all
and the walls contracted
and expanded simultaneously:
The former from the pressure.
The latter from complacency.
Latent we,
Ms. Giving:
Ye,
the she
that ignored the line
for the long term
and
Me,
the he
that created cause for concern
but couldn't possibly be less involved.
There's nothing to absolve,
Ms. Giving.
No way to wash away
The years unclear
or the tears I now fear
in the face of the misgivings
attached therein
but should you let me back in,
Ms. Giving,
this promise procured
would be validated.
Assured.
Made pure
enough to rouse
those misgivings provoking
and gather each by the throat
to never be spoken
or pondered
again.
Ms. Giving,
wit's end will not close this story.
Not this chapter.
Not here, there
or after
because you,
Ms. Giving
are the surface and the rafters.
Tears of joy. Infectious laughter.
The hardest love. Such gentle care.
Summer warmth. Winter air.
All the heart could hope to share
that understanding could never conceive,
premonition wouldn't believe
and ambition alone could never achieve.
Ms. Giving
just giving
aside from the advising and admonition.
An extension of the unconventional.
Somewhat trivial.
Unconditional means
yet
in the face of misgivings
meant to glean some reason to demean
you still mean to love
me.
Me.
Written By: Devin Joseph Metz
"Padlocks"
Never ask a question
you already know the answer to.
Ask for who?
Who's the friend?
You contend with denial
to see how much
can be tucked under the cloak
as if those secrets weren't provoked.
As if the concealed won't appeal
to the chance to have you
choke on your words.
Spoke what they heard
until it seems absurd
to be granted your measure
of air.
To spare no lie
is to die in the moment.
Atonement too high an expense.
Too intense of a compliment
is consequence to confidence
and the contrast implied
is that common sense
finds its way to you
eventually.
A lie soaked in sympathy.
Your Are Not Listening.
Never ask where it went
while it remains in your possession.
Therein lies the lesson:
Misdirection does less harm
to the misinformed
than those charmed by secrecy.
Decency has no place in this.
The lake
and
The abyss
given the location
are only distinguished by light,
lack of
and the time of day.
The hideaway where one resides
can never say
that where others confide and pray
is less deserving of a timed delay.
The demon that stalks the night
will still prey upon the day.
Havoc is haphazard
and hell ignores the schedule.
Speaking in time;
not of the end times.
Not of the last days.
No certain pathways
hinged on relieving your soul
of the impending.
Inevitable.
Incredible that we who see
are not perceived as prophets
until the rose dies under rockets...
I'm not woke
and
I'm no "Hotep"
and
if that offends you,
rise up.
Outgrow that.
I'm not blowback.
I won't grow that hedge
around you
just to say "I Told You."
I don't know you
and
you don't owe me
so before you show me
what sensitivity looks like
when dunked in retort,
proofread that report.
Listening Now?
Don't pretend to wonder how
when your otherwise betrays you.
Your eyes drift in caution;
feigning the casual glances.
Your movement serves you poorly
as if grace and precision
thought it best to abort the mission.
Trivial condition all too common
to the perpetually slalom among you;
dodging the straight and narrow
like a chamber and barrel
at point blank distance.
Resistance affirmed
in all your might
yet you squirm in the light.
Night retires
but
Darkness remains.....
.... like weeds in the sunlight
from which they were sprung
to twist and choke
until lopped off,
pulled up
and flung.
Just like your tongue.
Written By: Devin Joseph Metz
"Time Between"
"Hey Stranger..."
Phrase I've heard
countless times before
but never from you.
Cliché as it is
centered around fabrication...
...the groundless inclination
to feign that you've missed me.
Risky the tactic.
Contemptuous as a habit
so frivolous and fake
for the sake of pretentious planning
as if your understanding would ever
allow you to convince me
that I was missed by you
so I am one of the few
to say
"What do you want?"
"Hey Big Head..."
An untimely phrase that always
seems to come about when you've
finally reached a good place.
Inserted in an unprecedented
fashion where it need not be applied
because this scenario isn't applicable.
It would seem that the
security you procured while
you were here has faded away.
Reluctant your return to which
you thought would still be intact.
But my intuitive senses
sense danger afoot.
Tingling in my nervous system
alerts me to your ulterior motives.
Dare I say but inclined to ask,
"New life, Who's this?"
and who misses interruption?
As time passed,
you rewind past
and conjure empty introduction
as if memory will forsake me.
From "We haven't talked lately"
to "I still love you, baby."
This confused loop is crazy.
I don't even want to know
how far back that flash was
that you still love to flaunt and show.
Time dead as the last cause
and yet you still find more to go
along with your corroded basis.
Deal of pain the rain acidic
washing over your basic ambition.
No transition.
All the way abrupt and forceful.
Lies well in the eyes
still seeking refuge in my torso.
Lips that draw the lines
lubricated by the morsels
collected in memory.
A play on affinity.
As lonesome as trends can be.
Still lost on your intent for me.
Sometimes.. The grass is
greener on the other side.
But you have to patrol the dating
pool and wet it to see if it'll grow.
By choosing to do such, you basically
stated that my soil was barren.
Quite the contrary.
Because, in fact, you
choose not to nurture it.
Peeking over the fence
to see the process
in which my progress
is taking place.
Fret not.
Death comes swiftly
in the night time.
.. or daytime ..
Depending on when you thought
is was a good idea to impede on
what once was ours to share.
"Love don't live here anymore!"
I believe, all things considered, you
figured the imprint you left on me
would put me in a coma like state.
Yet, what remained were sleepless
nights awaiting your untimely return.
Cringe worthy the second, minute, hour
you finally decided to waltz back in.
The archaic terms now in which
you speak are greatly outdated.
Snapshots softly faded in sunlight.
Some might hazard a glance
and become entranced
by the smiles
but enhanced are the wiles
while the truth hangs in the frame.
Where one struggles recalling names,
I remember every moment
I've no way to be absolved of.
Spent those years trying to solve love
like it was the problem
that we make it to be.
Didn't make it with me.
Only naked we see
that nothing makeshift can be
worth all the vagueness made glee
just to give you some excuses
for conversing brief and useless.
Don't brush away intent so ruthless
to act like you want to do this.
Bye, Stranger.
Written By: Twin Monks (Eric Gumas and Devin Joseph Metz)
