A rather large poetry drop this one. Mostly from my endeavors to grow my Instagram following. I do hope you enjoy!

https://www.instagram.com/herbs.words/

Untitled

I might just be words on a page,

but in my eyes (I don’t have eyes),

I think you’re doing great.

And if I can notice it, than

so should you.

Cut yourself some slack,

woah…

be careful with those scissors.

No Longer the Last Byam

Did you know I use to take pride

in this? A measly modicum but sin

nonetheless.

And now I pride myself on you,

and the way you’ve worn my

father’s name for all but a day.

But god do you wear it so well.

Throes, Part 1 and 2

If I happen to view the past with

distinct, rose, colored glasses-

then my subconscious must possess

iris of the blood-red variety. Clinical

results suggest that I can no longer

discern between nightmares and

dreams. Rather I am only ever aware

of their designation upon awakening.

And let me note here, for posterity,

that I am begging that alarm

clock to sing.

To free me from this stupor, this self-

flagellation, working under the guise

of nostalgia.

__

I hadn’t really considered that the-

dream I was experiencing could be

a nightmare.

Of course I realized halfway to the

DMV. God you’re such a dick

subconscious.

We are all our own devils, to

quote Company of Thieves.

Shameless plug like my brain

shamelessly guises trauma as nostalgia.

Let this bitter laugh be-

the end of this.

I designated the end of us long,

long ago.

Clue

Clue me into your secrets, that thing

you do so calmly, haphazardly with

no regard for product, placement

or person.

Your secret sigh-ing strategy.

With practiced hands, you weave

it amongst clauses and syllables.

Deft.

Always on beat, always a moment

away. Constantly on the cusp

of your lips, let it breathe out

and try to sigh again-

against-

My gentle lips.

In Flight

Somewhere over the Atlantic,

in an unflattering metal tube, In the

space between London and Philadelphia,

the unfettered air, alone in our ascent

I cy.

Not for the fussy baby two rows back, not

the woman sitting next to me desperately

trying to sleep. Not the stewardess

harassed by the turbulence and the

loudest man on Earth. I cry because

I am so sick, and tired

of not

filling my life with the things that

make me happy.

Stillness

Stillness.

Broken by an ever-shifting sun

beam, belittling my shade and

Thrusting self awareness into

the forefront.

Just once can I view a horizon

without projecting myself

onto it?

The human condition doesn’t

need to stand on the clouds or

trees, yet I continue endlessly.

Like waves on an open wound.