"Erect"

"Erect"

Fingertips that press ripples
with the power to rub and caress
or cripple with firm grip...
...little concern for
when my head eventually
swells or drips freely.
You just serenely take me
in your grasp,
clasp
then lubricate the shaft
as if it sounds to you
as good as it feels to me.
You can have your fun
and tease
but please:

Don't squeeze.

Be careful, baby.

This ego is sensitive.
My habits are elastic
but this masculinity...

...so fragile.

Be decisive
not divisive as your hands travel.
After all,
discarded drops
will only mix with gravel.
Potential in these seeds.
Hands cupped and closed in creed
then formed to fit my needs.

Friction at odds with speed.

Take your time, baby.

So much is too much
at once for me to process
and that stress
I'm too stubborn to communicate

until my ego is stroked.

Share saliva with the fibers
but don't let me choke you.
I've said enough to play it tough
but I won't dare provoke you.

Your stroke
like a flame stoked for warmth.
My feet float
and you take note
of things I've said you aren't
in hopes of downplaying your worth
so that your skills remain mine only.
You'd measure my girth
and ask me what it would take
to make me eventually spurt
and I would say "Time Only."
Vague with you in spells
because I know damn well
that showing the other hand
means that things won't end well

and I need this nut, baby.

Less ashamed to admit that
after guaging your interest in me.
A little lotion
and slower motion
for a head this swollen
than you offered in the beginning.
I've said the words
you love to hear
just to keep you grinning
and you graze my veins
and ignore the stains.
I guess we both are winning

right now, at least.

So me of me
to see you struggle
through the strain
as your muscles increase in pain
hoping that soon it would drain
and I would meet you halfway:
Letting go of this pressure
I've acquired for no reason
other than to serve my manly worth
and eventually come for you

for a change.

I love how good you make me feel
but I take that for granted.
I cause you stress
then make a mess
and leave you empty handed.
I deny your role in this
as if someone poked holes and ripped
to perceive that you control me.
I confuse passion and perspective
and that incurs neglect from me
but I deflect the opportunity
to acknowledge your means of unity
until I again feel vexed
and hope that this text
will not be left on read

because no one empties my head
like you.

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz

"Body Oil"

"Body Oil"

Your Scent.
Your Signature.

Similar to a familiar voice
choosing to speak to me.
Air moving about with care
as if your very essence
knew me
better than the mind ever could.
Never would mistake that smell.
Not one I've come to know so well
like a trail leading me back home.
Scent that has tone
when smeared across the body
that I'd privately
take the time to taste.
One inhale
and a faster pace
of heartbeats impart me
to chart the quickest way
back to your airspace.
In closed quarters,
I've enjoyed this scent
in places it wasn't meant for.
Spent more room on my palate
than your talent for placement
can permit you time for.
I'm more than a little obsessed
admittedly
and figured we
could make use of
what was left in that vial.

Can taste your scent for miles...
...Mouth Watering Signature

and I your replenisher.
Finisher of every morsel.
Parceled out to potential others.
Inconsequential lovers

but it stunk on them.

On you it hovers
like a feast after my famine
and this beast could not imagine
gorging until walls have dampened
if for the sake
you never happened
to walk in front of me.
Your scent comforts me
yet playfully tortures me.
Warmth I need
so I've sought for speed
and fought through beads of sweat
in hope that I'd net
just a hint of you.

Would love a fistful of hair
but just to know
you were once there...

Fancied the thought of us laying down
but just to know
that you were around...

Would love to see your face
but to breathe in
and recall the very taste
of a place where you once stood...

.....for a scent
a signature
to feel this good...

...would you wear that again
for me?

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz

"He Drank His Own Tears"

"He Drank His Own Tears"

If he could climb,
he'd just play in the dirt.
No concern for the girl
in the pretty pink skirt.
Oblivious as his father's blood boils.
Mysterious this wet soil.
Wonder his greatest possession.
Force fed lessons about direction.
Hand slips from the jungle gym.
Hard smack and some broken skin.
Pain,
Confusion,
Fear in his eyes.
Chastised as he began to cry.
Ran to Mother's arms making room.
Grandmother kissed and rubbed the wounds.

If he could swim,
he'd stay up for air.
Tightened trunks
and tied back his hair.
Floatables.
Only one pair.
Advised by Mother to take care.
Skipped the line and forced a turn.
Forgot the goggles and his eyes burn.
Kept the towel.
Asked him what he'd learned.
Young but noting
Dad's lack of concern.
Concentration on the task at hand.
Flinching after every raised hand.
Old fashioned method to this plan.
Determined to raise the perfect man.

If he could drive,
he'd decide to walk instead.
Layers of anxiety
strewn about his head.
Father's threats breathing down his neck.
He's just trying not to end up dead.
Eyes swollen.
Turning red.
Can't remember all that was said.
He hit the brakes in a turning lane.
Red lights he would speed through.
He can't breathe.
Dad intercedes.
A myriad of mistakes to see through.
Time treated like an excuse requested.
No acknowledgement of patience neglected.
Their relationship a prism reflective
of the frustrated
and the dejected.

If he could cry,
he would do the same.
Flashbacks
when they'd call his name.
Furthest corner in a dark room.
Composed himself.
They'll be back soon.
Traded warm milk for sour mash.
Haunting repression of the past
where boys don't cry
and men still choose
to hold on to it
and ignore all cues:

Recusing himself from a reality
where excusing oneself is no travesty
and needing some help is formality.

Forced Masculinity Is True Tragedy.

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz

"I Can't Wait On Deliverance"

"I Can't Wait On Deliverance"

This plane is not high enough.
From this window seat,
my eyes can actually
look down on the skies
and still see way too much
below me.
Placed yourself there
purposely
as if to service the assumption
that I think I'm better than you.
I don't
but you do.
I don't stalk
but you do
through whichever means
will end in gaining my attention
regardless of whether justified
because a lie never cared
to concern itself with
whether or not the truth
was still standing there.

This train is not compact enough.
Crammed as much baggage
as my spirit could manage
as my mind could muster
as my heart would heave and lumber
but even in tiresome slumber,
I am awakened by the stabbing sensation
of you fighting me
nearly to the station.
Would smear your self conceived pain
across entire nations
if it would leverage guilt upon me.
Contrite when you call me
but boisterous in disagreement.
Can't seem to agree with
the difference
when your opinion you've made fact
and mine you've deemed a lack thereof.

Less pace.
More acceleration.
I never want the past
to keep up with the rest of me.
The best of me
while born in that
is not
in fact
tethered to anything
you would claim responsibility for.
Liability as blind
as the hand over the eye
will still have to confront the very fear
that demands that tears are cried
for every confidently crafted lie
told when you make a want a need
so cry until your eyes bleed
while I gain as much speed
as I can find serve with
but my nerves with
this swerve
and that curb
that neither of us could ever pass
only ensures that there will be a crash.

Even this car isn't fast enough
I guess.

Quickened by the desperation
of a long sought after separation.
These pills don't last long enough.
I'm still chasing the high.
This liquor isn't strong enough.
I've drank myself dry.
This patience isn't long enough.
I still often wonder why
my heart needs this much time
to let go of what I never wanted
to be mine to begin with.
If ultimately left to contend with
the all encompassing transgression
that is our pointless plot
of countless interactions,
I'd burn off the apprehension
and forcefully snatch away my ascension
because it goes without mention
that this life is not big enough
for us both to coexist in it.

Don't be angry.
Don't be sorry.
Just be distant.

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz

"Distant Ties"

"Distant Ties"

Not looking for it close up.
Not missing it from far sight.
You hope that thoughts approach us.
I know that want. It's not right.

Years blown.
You would drive me crazy.
Said I was your baby.
I'm no longer your child.
Maybe
whatever is worth saving
of us might delay the
sting of when emotions ran wild.

Months gone.
Didn't need your saving.
I needed to save me
or I'd run low on time.
Staving
you off was a labor
that did me no favors.
You acknowledge no line.

Even so far away
I find it hard to say
what you hope I mean
so things seem better for you.
A taxing chore to
skirt around your emotions
while your intent was in motion
to have my ambition subdued.

You were crude and unrefined
with a broken filter.
Concealer amid the masses
until flinging trash served you.
Heard you.
They all did
and they all hid until
your fire and fury was quelled.

That just never served me well.

So you would bark and blow.
I would tell you no
then you'd threaten to go
and make it appear as though
I was so heartless of a son
that I'd kick you out.
A scream and shout
for whomever cared to listen.

"Girl, that's a shame."
"What happened to your children."

You hoped to justify me as your villain.

For what is worth revealing,
there is nothing appealing
about one who mongers rumors
for the humor of the inquisitive.
You plotted on division
long before you heard "I Do"
because you knew
right where your bed was made.
Would tell me
"Things were said"
when anger and convenience
sought to converge on some concept
you were sure was born of genius
means of malice and manipulation.

Bearing me for nine months
is not a charge for service rendered
that you can demand interest on.
Love is not a savings bond
that you can cash out for currency
concurrently
then purpose me
just to cover your debt.

I'm not finished yet.

Over time,
you've run over mine
so I'm over time
that just might run out.

Blame what you chose to hear;
not what was said.
You can close your ears
and even turn your head from the wall
but the ink is bare
because blood is there
and every tear you spare
will never wash it out.
The bile you'd spew
has poisoned you.
No fortune to
one wishing to ruin another.

This is not tradition.
Don't talk. Just listen.
It's not about your vision.
This is about my life.
You still have a place there
but you sought to displace care
so you'd risk falling from grace where
you could just blame it on my wife.

Just you or nothing
as if just you was something
to sustain what I deserved.
Be a man without the nerve
or the balls
or the spine
to leave behind a construct much maligned
you would dress as structure to the blind
that knew nothing beyond those blinds.
That house was no home
so I left it behind.
It was time to go

so no.

Not looking for it close up.
Not missing it from far sight.
That dream died,
was sold
and closed up.
A broken image of the battle
that I never wanted to fight.

Months gone
and I get the texts
or the phone calls.
You don't mean to vex.
You don't aim to disturb.
You don't want to work on my nerves.
You just love me
and miss me.
and think about me
every day. 

....................what do you want me to say?

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz

"Y'all Talk?"

"Y'all Talk?"

She is the secret
that I only share
with our lonesome air 
to impart temporary comfort.
The grand performance
that I'd never dare pair
with a theater fully seating
a completely attentive audience.

She is that audible sound
that I make
when something tastes
far better
than I thought it would.
Too good to keep the recipe
anywhere
other than one's memory, though.

If pleasure truly is guilty,
then our iniquities in sight
would draw me furthest from the light.
Nightly practice of positions
preferred wholly over sleep,
she is that corner of the room
where darkness tends to loom
and glow is too afraid to creep toward.
She easily makes it hard.

She is delight in difficulty.
The rash decision resulting
in unavoidable trials
with all the guile and testimony
that may never ring in ears.
The peculiar fit of enchantment
with that entranced state of fear
and I really don't mind her tears.

I'm here
and shouldn't be.
Right mind
and wouldn't be.
Like mine
no good for me.
Like mind
but good to me.
No one watching.
Timer done clocking.
Headboard still rocking.....
.....drawing more secrets to my mouth.
I drew those secrets with my mouth.
There might be days we scream and holler
but this secret won't leave my mouth
and I
really want to shout
but then,
what could I lie about?

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz

"Hiding In The Dark"

"Hiding In The Dark"

You.
You used to look so good
that I could make an easy effort
out of sizing up your shape
from clear across the room
in the dark.
We used to start
so close
that we shared the sighs between us.
Limited to no vision
in the peripheral sense
but it didn't matter
because all I cared
to see
was directly in front of me.

You still are
to some degree
but.................
with the growing darkness
between,
even your attempts at
transparency
have seen
and forseen
that your luster would wear thin
eventually
and resemble more facade
or fallacy
than what you might have hoped
would be revealed.

Perhaps you aren't without appeal.
Not completely
yet
but one would bet the vault
and all the contents therein
that your practiced intent
cannot contend
with a fault that knows no end.

You're beautiful.
Bright.
Buxom.
Shapely.
The standard bearing image
of what one would say is a lady

and I can't stand the sight of you.

The plight of you
now fuels my indifference.
So right of you
to enlist some distance
as if it restores the shards
of your self-assumed dignity.
A poor man's version
you thought to hide
behind a veil of pride
as frail as the lies
you tell
and live openly.

You took the time
and had the nerve
to open me
and pour in.
I was your next win
and
you were the one sin
that I would ever think to call
my favorite
and if engaged in honesty,
I'll likely savor it
years after we stop speaking.

Even now in this room:
Pitch black.
Darkness peaking.
Temptation peeking in.....
we used to grin
when our sins
would take the middle of the floor;
inviting us to explore.
Daring us to implore
that another score or so
wouldn't hurt if we let go
soon enough
and neither of us
are good enough at that
although time has lent us
the opportunity to improve.

I used to sit here
with you
and reminisce
surrounded by what little
we could see
and we would let our thoughts
be.
We
would find excuses
akin to scribes seeking out muses
for the decisions that would ensue
in our shared solitude.
A mood once imbued
with a heightened enchantment
we were so willfully entranced with
can only offer consternation now.
I used to wait for the day
when we'd find the words to say
that would allow this to continue.
Would take time off,
miss you,
befriend you
again
but then,
this dark room became apparent:

Apparently,
I haven’t seen
enough of you.
Enough from you.
Enough for you
to be worth the act.
No direction.
No plan intact.
Just you until black
took that away.
Once cursed the night
but hid from day.
The light wouldn't dare comfort me
with you here in my company
so here
in black
I'm one with me
but there will be no slumbering
until in the dark
you run from me
and are done with me
but if you choose to remain
for your portion of pain,
you can gather your own stains.

Just don't touch me.

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz

"Big Wet Lips"

"Big Wet Lips"

Fixed mine to ask a favor
then another.
Maybe later
we could savor
secretive requests
somewhat direct in labor
yet too explicit to suggest
before a time like this.

A kiss this sweet

 would never grace the cheek.

Pursed,
they leak
again
and stain the sheets.
I can hear
and feel them speak.

They make no use of words.

Consider all of this absurd
but you don't know what I've heard.

Quickened pace.

Frantic
as if giving chase.
Manic
as if hard to break.
Want it like I'm panicked;
reaching through the gate.
Through that cell
of dripping lace
concealed like jail.
Behind your manicured nails,
I watch that inmate swell.

Slick like gel in gloss and glory.
Garments fell to tell the story.
Listened well and licked my own.

Place nor House.

I call it Home.

Opened wide for my attention.
Offered charm to incite retention.
Rosy colors.
Tension spiked.
Conversed in verse. No sleep tonight.
Speech to slur in tiers
from clear
to milky.
Tone
like skin
so smooth and silky.
Filthy things they part to say.
Tiny curls
but that's okay.
Shared with me what you won't speak.
Long on time but worth the seek.
Good on sound
but losing speech.
Threatening to drown
as moisture peaks.

Coming down
like clouds this dark.
Warmth this telling.
Chill this stark.
Without warning, they impart
what you withheld from the start.

Quick to talk
and stain my face.
Shaking.
Trembling.
Rest in place.
Spat it out
ignoring pace
and now you ask about good taste.

Held this image in my mind.
Sideways, supine
or from behind,
I'll get in close
and hope to find
those lips that scream
when given time...

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz

"Today"

"Today"

Feels like I am falling
forever.
Never thought much of the squall
or even smoldering heat honestly.
No great feat
performed by nature itself
is as formidable as gravity.
Haven't we had our time already?
Do I really need to experience this
again?
Did I not send for some assurance?
Am I undeserving of assistance;
meant to be throttled
tortured
by the downward distance
between descent and destruction?
Blatant this obstruction:
the mishandling of my appeal.
My plea.
Protest against being held near
what is likely my greatest fear.

Surely the drop
is more ruesome than the landing
and standing clear
has yet to appear
even the least bit effective
at giving fear a reason to pass by.
Had I known,
I'd have thrown apprehension
into that loathsome pit
and watched from where I'd choose to sit
but it's always been about time
and I can't help feeling
as if I'm without mine
like I'm locked out from
the necessary notice of signs
and fixed to this paradigm
for as long as takes to reach the end.

Thoughts of this manner
barely even pass the time.
Conjuring patterns concise and clear
in the face of paralyzing fear
took less time to develop
than the walls that envelop
what I hope to climb out of
assuming that I will survive.
Presumably alive
and somewhat able;
capable of such a feat.
Remembering when my feet
felt this life beneath them.
Recalling how my hem
would drag against the earth.
For what it was worth then,
it was time I never thought twice
about spending wisely.
For what it is worth now,
I'd mix and mingle dirt and skin
if only to end this ceaseless spin.

Feels like I'm falling
again
and again
without end.
I can't move myself.
I just bend and flail.
I am frail;
sailing from wall to edge
hedged by nothing.
Wishing that something
new
would happen already
but to be honest,
I'm not ready
and don't know when
or if I will be.
I'm willing to end the plummet
for sure
but I haven't braced myself
for the crash.
I'll wonder then
maybe
why I didn't think
or even react fast enough
but for now I'm just stuck
and I don't even have it in me
to blame bad luck.
I've come to accept the fact
that rather than give it my all,
I've decided that I would fall
forever.

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz

"Heaven In Her"

"Heaven In Her"

For as long
as the lids
of these eyes
find reason to pry,
they will surely cry in the presence.
Essentially as intense
as the first time they looked past
birth
to a fashion of true desire
that I wouldn't understand
or seek for years later
because even in my infancy,
your intensity
was
and
is
the journey more treasured
than the destination.
Chilling the sensation
upon that first realization
that I've been aware of your existence
but have only recently met your eyes
so yes:
I will most certainly cry.
Labor in silence
and traverse through violence itself
for another glimpse.
I want to.
I want you to see
me
struggling not to blink
for the fear that I think
such a meager sacrifice
might push paradise
a lifetime or three further away from me.
No one else can see
why this matters to me
but I am willing to beseech
since understanding that speech
is a derivative of first sight
rather than the abrupt flight
of words premeditated.
Our encounter predating preparatory means
in any regard
yet
when I finally saw you to understand,
I felt you in my hand
held as tight as the light
gently washing clear my vision
of what these moist eyes
were purposed to witness openly.
Days stretched long and wide
between that first gaze
and hope for the next....
...surely thought the best
of rare occurrences would never
ever
compare to this experience
and ever since,
through joyful agony
it is you that I will seek
because open eyes
not parted lips
will recount the first time
that I felt God speak
to me.

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz

"Nights Left In Fall"

"Nights Left In Fall"

Lightest of taps
gliding across the surface.
Not tentative.
Never nervous.
A service to their gracious performer.
Charmer of moves with
incremental improvements....
rapture subdued with
slower,
paced,
more graceful movements
that the eye
nor the mind
would know what to do with
so the heart takes the lead.
Increase in speed
and this course of action
places passion before the rest.
Best description I've found
given to harmony in view
rather than just in essence.
Refreshing and new.
Familiar and true.
Demonstrative and mean.
Gentle and serene.
A scene that isnt seen
but experienced rather
for the eyes can't fully comprehend
all there is to take in.
Therein lies a definition:
My best interpretation
of what it feels like to be
overwhelmed.
One might elect to take the helm
as a means of surveying plainly
but the same who see more before
will surely be as captivated after
whether observing as near as the door
or as far up high as the rafters.
Rapture at ease
in front of the keys.
Ran with a lead
just to blow with the leaves.
Started ahead
just to land in that bed.
No words exchanged
but you heard what I said.
Sound a million hearts might follow.
Fodder for those feeling hollow
but these notes we hold so dear
harmonize when you are near.

Where are you...

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz

"Acupuncture"

"Acupuncture" 

Familiar sensation
I perceived would have become
foreign
after torn in to my skin.

Them:

Like needles from the floor
expanding in my pores
searching for the door
we should've crushed the key to.

We did our best
in pretense
to make sense of excess access.

Asked less from those
who would claim to know,
the show -
violently...exquisitely passionate
and grotesque -
is best performed in the light.
It saves face from the unassuming;
unaware of this
occasional exhuming
we put to task with. 

With 

the past

With

One asking the other.

I feel that lost time
pricking my spine
and chilling the skin.
Time never thin enough.
Awkward silence thick
enough
to press against the space between us:
as close as receiver
and as far as messages unread
until those needles insist.
No trace of what we miss
but curiosity hungers.

Memory always begins with numbers.
Easiest recollection of resentment.
Most conventional resignation of will.
Of power.
Sense of self
showered with stabs and stings.
Fleeting things
like months and milestones
thrown into the score
much like the metal love bore into us.

No closer to the core
but thrust against flesh and bone.
More prone when alone
or staring at the phone
finding home in each
internal wince
served to every
outward longing glimpse
of a time
equal parts perplexing and vexing.

The former for what was.
The latter is what it is.

What is
may be our biggest effort
toward denial
as if our wiles
and wearisome respective
displays of will
could ever keep away
what pokes and prods from deep inside.
Pride is pathetic
when used selectively in any case
and it certainly won't erase
silent screams
and daydreams...

...streams of thought
never shared
but dared to ponder
daily.
Often.
Off when preoccupied or sharing time
but our favorite crime to commit
and get away with
when it looks to fill in emotional vacancies.
Well drawn to that sense
of illicit vagrancy
with a sheet to peek over...

Weak shoulders
the bleak holders
of some sense of strength
fictionalized
to devise a way
to make this abrupt
sway in the other's direction
less dereliction
and more deliberate.
Funny to fancy one
more considerate
of a moving target in cross hairs
than one's emotional welfare

and right there is where the sharp is plunged deep.
Sleep a casualty of coarse,
calloused,
calcified collections
of former feelings and interactions
where passion still stands tall
in our perversions.
The assertion
that such intense attraction ever wavers
is our cherished lie

but to say goodbye
while justifiably warranted
is as frightening
as the pain felt in that first prick.

Nicks

The evidence of voluntary sticks
and seldom seen
but lazily concealed incisions
commissioned in bouts of secrecy
we accept as therapeutic
but we knew better of it.
Perhaps we thought lesser of it
than we allowed ourselves to believe.
Maybe the perceived harshness
was valued as catharsis.
Supposedly
the pain
came more from the underlying strain
of wanting to pierce and drain;
hoping to eventually tame
what should be removed instead

but if the dread be embraced
to the extent of extreme,
the bed strewn with threads
solid,
sharp
and pristine
that breaks away at our
contradictory convictions
will make our astriction
the closest we've come
to means we could never explain.

Love lost still holds value in pain.

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz

"The Extent"

"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"

"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"

"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)

"Strobe Lights"

"Strobe Lights" 

Fighting my menace like kids at the dentist but now all my sentences run on...

This feeling often unexplained
but fully expected.
Heard you speak of the neglected
like either of us
was ever
truly
good to ourselves.
Lost you in the haze.
In this maze.
Chased the daze
because clarity is hilarity.
You call it catharsis.
There aren't this many people
in one place
like ever.
Should we go?
Would I leave?
Never.
You appear sick of it,
I suppose.
Who knows
once we break skin and take in and begin between the murmur and the slur and the babble and the ramble and the run on... 

... come on.
We're too far up there
where we chose to fare
to care about
and rant about
and yell
and shout
the doubts I've come to see
as absolutely foreign to me
once a dose kicks in.
Colors look gross mixed in
the contents of the glass
but pass for acceptable
when passing through receptacles
we can view from a distance.
Milligrams between instance
and the next instant
finds us surrounded with the room spinning.
"The beginning of this again..."
you spit through frowns amid my grin
as if being here was a sin
and there's a penance for admission.

This was our tradition.
Conditions I can't see...
Felt like you should feel me.
Admittedly,
I fall in love
with you
all over again
every time our blood streams
from exposed veins.
Tainted bloodstreams.
I'd hear screams
if not for volume
and the space between.
I can only glean vibration and flash.
Swept up is trash.
Hapless is cash
I'd sooner spend on glass
that would be broken thereafter.
I swear I hear laughter
but am befuddled
by the tears in your eyes.
There's some passion in our rhythm
but yours is........violent.
Sporadic.
Less dance floor than addict.
So much made of the habits
one stands to be reminded of...

Not the glove
but closely fit
for the benefit of smiles
from the subconscious stairs I climb
in my submersion sublime;
gathered from down deep
to creep higher.
I've peeled fliers
and made time
and worn tires.
I don't own ties... 

..... living as plain as my clothing but plain is a scolding reminder that old things will wither and fade so I saved up for shades just to enhance my look like the way I appear matters. Not to them but to you because honest and true, I love looking at you but if caught in a stare, I'd notice you there... 

.....watching me fighting my menace like kids at the dentist as sentences ramble and run on as I dance through despair.....but you're hurting there........
...................asking yourself if I even care
at all. 

The colors.
A beautiful distraction
until they aren't. 

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz