we navigate this treacherous skin.

every new touch cutting deeper than the last.

prisoners ascending time's crumbling walls.

our flesh engaged in an eternal war.

every word a surrender. every glance a suicide.

blood makes its promises. tears tender their confessions.

as the years betray us, the distance shrugs.

our weapons grow heavy. our armor turns to dust.
 

but even long after these bodies have surrendered,

we still keep those blades sharp. 

 

the cold has its own voice. a curious mistress with a backward smile.

our atoms dance inside our skin. manic acrobats in damaged masks.

we are the sum and the integer. withered actors on stages made of why.

the winter has its own language. all heavy stones in small pockets.

ripe with temporary choices that become permanent.

we're feathers on the ground. desperate to touch the wind again.

we are passengers in time's relentless machine.

looking out the window at a world

that is always just out of reach. 

absent arbiters are hardly missed.

lingering passengers in a shrinking frame of reference.

collapsing tunnels are both the disease and the cure.

timid monsters shuffle their maps. confounded by the destinations that remain unscarred.

the end is wordless as the villain's lips begin to bleed.

one more delicate snowflake in a violent storm.

we give them names because we want to know them.

we count the years because we think we can measure what is missing.

but waiting is a treacherous conceit.

and time has always been a broken metaphor. 

the light wears our faces. a permanent stranger. drowning in all the colors that chase us.

time stumbles over our corpses. an indifferent predator.

the light peels away our skin. a curious beggar. running in the choke of our stilted footprints.

the window sighs. a fierce pendulum. swollen with inertia.

time bites its lip. desperate to taste our loss. 

touch is a hollow stage. tilted by missing words.

the light listens. as we attempt to reconcile our math.

a sickness masquerading as a cure. 

its dirty needle embedded deep in our veins. 

solvent beggars shuffle their debts. time responds. the pale auditor of touch.

tense capacitors flirt with the skin. beholden to love's crumbling machine.

soft dolls lick their strained stitches. their tattered dresses stiff with shame.

their motionless faces dense with words they cannot speak.

the world approaches. in trampling footsteps and grinning wolves.

hysterical witches spend their candy on curious orphans.

soiled pockets fill with unused breadcrumbs. as they wander so deep into the forest.

that they forget that they are lost.

louder still the distance screams.
the ugly inferno of our voices ignites.

we continue to worship the horizon.
though it only tells us lies.

we gnaw on the edge.
all its sour colors an irresistible drug.

we sit in our machines. 
listening to their choking engines.

convinced they can be still repaired.
flirting with time. a poisoned romance.

melted crayons in our pockets.
knotted colors in our heads.

shouting at the outlines
we're unable to fill in.

the angles oblique.
as we approach the center.

a catastrophe of skin.
nothing left to feel.

except what is missing.

skin is a story. touch is the protagonist.

time fumbles with its ammunition. the war slithers out of its smile.

i can only see the edge. i can only hear the silence.

the pendulum grazes my confession.

choice opens its fist. revealing the void inside.

we are impatient creatures. full of anemic promises. and tender assassins. 

we live on the points of needles. strangled by the threads they sew.

trust is a charming villain.

and there are no heroes.

 unexpected visitors infiltrate the seldom crevices.
domesticated monsters gnaw on the keyboard. 

the empty chairs search for faces.
the tilted table wonders after the math.
as broken skin sheds its bandages. 

the corner grins.
full of so many shattered time machines. 
they laugh as they fumble with the remnants of our past.

as we tremble in the void between
where we are and where we've been. 
our voices held hostage by all the words left unsaid. 

the truth continues tying its knots.
shallow creases steadily press deeper.
eventually becoming permanent. 

the scale sighs are we put on our weight on it. 
but lacking an opposing force.
we sink. 

 the angles vary, but our perspective seldom does.

worn by time. these stubborn masks rarely change.

betrayed by memory. we undo the threads.

sold to strangers. by our own insecurities.

the winter arrives too slowly and stays too long.

because the cold is irrevocably a component of our lives.

we're only young for a moment.

and then everything else occurs.

we're only puppets on loose strings.

imagining we can dance.


Filed under: Sad Poems January 2025

the end of the world comes and goes. so many tiny knots along a endless rope. 

random touches wander all the little mazes that populate our skin. 

while we choke on the stray words that get caught in our throats. 

life is a series of corners. each one sharper than the last. 

we are a catastrophe of choices. unfolding our paper cups. 

desperate to catch a few raindrops before our vessel dissolves. 

slowly dying of thirst in a sea of water.  

time waits for us at the edge of our grief. eager to ask a simple question. 

how far are we willing to fall. 


Filed under: January 2025 Sad Poetry

the little buttons lose their edges over time.

until there's no closing those openings ever again.

long roads impel us to chase them. muted by a distance that chokes.

the search is imperative. anything we might find already spent. 

we shuffle the colors. until everything is grey.

tugging on the zippers that keep these faces where we want them.

arrogantly daring everything to change.

tomorrow slips out of its fancy dress.

a trembling virgin violated under the guise expectation.

we remain at the party. playing its nefarious games.

throwing our stones at the ceiling.

shocked when the roof collapses. 


Filed under: January 2025 Sad Poetry

 

we whisper. counting our words between the last touch and the next.

our voices expedite this flesh.

time fumbles with our stray encounters. the empty cages of our choices remain soiled.

tomorrow tastes like bubble gum and piss. we're only predators under the most foul of circumstances.

our fists full of candy and blood. we feed the monsters that wear our skin.

time takes our wagers. the virulent speculations of tamed animals.

life paints the edges. in colors we can barely see.

we run. chasing a long expired freedom.

tangled kites twisting in the wind. 

frozen mirrors turn our own faces into strangers.

we tear at the shadows. convinced we can save the dead.

quietly the years consume us. until only skeletons remain.

we search for new skins. cold and vulnerable.

we sneak inside the closest one that fits.

just a quick taste. and then.

we'll move on to the next.


quietly we teach the dark our names.

open graves become familiar beds.

we chew on the grief. nourished by our shame.

we bite down on the sinew. all that's left of our catastrophe.

just a little taste. and then.

a lifetime of wondering

if we'll ever know that feeling again. 


Filed under: December 2024  Sad Poetry