her innocence is soluble
when dipped in
expectations,
her mirror;
like the bottom
of dinner plates,
her wrists are
tire marks on
gravel roads,
she sees not
what we see
but in what he
sees is what
she cares
but who is he
now?
a riptide splitting
face paint
saturday nights,
veins of toxins,
staring at roadkill
and streetlights
and garbage
hugging curb-sides
mixed with dust
days followed
with headaches
and remorse
dying not
I can see it in her
eyes
she’s only 16
                           MJB

I wonder if this is what being in a bar fight feels like
Bleeding into my belly
Nails bitten down to the skin
A tongue that can taste the bitter dryness of my skeleton
A matter of fact honesty that lays into my bones
And grips my ribs
My eyes are thirsty for black nothingness and my mind aches from standing all the time
It's 6am and I need to switch on
But I never switched off
I'm on standby
Like a cracked clay ***
I function but need to be replaced as the cracks will eventually break and no one wants to see everything fall apart
I am hunting for the sound of silence
Desperate to pierce stillness
To just stop and listen to my heart beat
Not for you, or them
For me
My body is like a jelly mould against my bed
But I can't stay awake long enough to enjoy this comfort
Dreams of the following day and anticipated disasters plague me
I need to be prepared
Organised
Ready
Somewhere along the way
I have pressured myself into being perfect
Everything has to be just right all the time or I'll get into trouble
I still don't know what the 'trouble' would be
Just that I can feel it eating everything away
Like a rotten disease
It will spread and taint all that has been signed and sealed with approval
I crave to stay awake and make time mine
At 3am
When the world is quiet
Just to quench the longing for how it felt like to sit and do nothing
I want to stare blankly at a wall for hours without a care in the world
No one would expect anything from me
No interruptions
Or consequences
Just me
Alone
In the calm

A flash of light,
Then a brilliant burst of colour,
And a deep amber of the most passionate hue,
Fell into waves,
And framed the brightest eyes of ocean blue.

A luminous face of olive-white,
Stared into my soul,
And filled my heart with delight.
Behind peach lips,
A smile reflected a smile,
As she outstretched her long arms,
In the most graceful style.

Her fragile hand turned a rotation,
Her fingers changing form,
Her other arm held above her head,
The breeze before the storm.

The girl from the other side of the camera was her.

Her final request:
One last picture.

She beckoned me near
And brushed my hair behind my ear.
Then, as if it were a sign,
She parted her lips,
And pressed them to mine.

Your hands were always cold,
even when you were mad–
even when they were
entwined in my oafish hands.
Oh, and how you would get mad!
I remember how those thin, delicate fingers
would tense up,
long and slender as they were,
and you would press the nail
of your index finger into the
side of your thumb.
You didn’t even notice you would do it.
It got to a point that we fought so often
you had cuts from your own nails.
The most beautiful fingers,
graceful and untouched,
except for those little stress-cuts
dug into the side of the thumbs.
And always cold,
even when you were mad–
even when they were
entwined in my oafish hands.

I am sorry we fought.
I always thought
if I could just keep those hands
warm a little longer,
we would make it through alright.
The fighting and the winters
and the coldness of it all
proved a little too much.
For that, I am sorry.
I hope you found yourself a
warmer hand to hold.

The life
Taken out of me.
Take your dagger
Out of me please.
You smell,
Of liquor and smoke
On your kisses
I once choked
No more
I'm not your *****
I'm not your girl.
Don't call me your one
I'm me, and I'll be leaving soon
So sit aside
And you go cry
In daddy's room:
Tear a piece
Of my hair
Keep it packaged
I do not care
I'm sick
Of the abuse
But one thing
Goodbye
I always loved you
I always tried
I always cried
This is my
Forgiving you.

Poetry is too
"Norm" these day's;
And I don't plan
Being normal,
I like the strange, the weird
Anyone canst be normal
But canst thou be strange?



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry

They lie
under cover
of darkness
'neath blankets
of fear
and mistrust.
The distance
between them
immeasurable,
scant inches
apart.
Feigning sleep
and ignoring
silent tears.
Hands reaching
across an
ever widening
chasm,
but never
touching.
Souls searching
for each other
but never
meeting.
A night
spent together
while divided.
The loneliest
night.