4.25.18

Standard

The face in fractured glass
has a bleak look about it.
Cold tears streak the dry skin,
and it seems as if an even colder truth
burns within the eyes.
I’d like to know that truth,
dig my fingers deep, and feel around
until I touch it, literally.

-r. miller

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Hangover

Standard

Lately only waiting intrudes.
The fierce wilderness is made docile
by the touch of tender fingers
whose friend/foe status is rather unclear.
I hold dear these vacancies of thought and action,
though I don’t understand why.
Nor the whispers drifting down
from the wakening sky:
Just what exactly are you trying to say?
What secrets will I be selected to uphold?
Teardrops of light trickle
from window to floor with unexpected grace.
The expression on my face
feels less than promising.

-r. miller

4.16.18

Standard

I’ve been saving my sympathies
for a rainy day, though
I’d be wrong to say they haven’t
overstayed their welcome.
Humdrum air flows
from discreet recesses
and about the public eye.
I’d like to die smiling ugh
This little cluster of words
in the corner of my brain
has left an unremarkable yet irreversible stain,
of whose appearance some might complain,
but I think it adds some color
to an otherwise drab space.
My poor face, though, it isn’t built
for smiling, despite my body
being built for dying.
Doesn’t mean I won’t stop trying.

4.13.18

Standard

These leaves wither with diligence.
Air grows slightly sour, self-destructive.
Behold my real game face!
and these floors I pace with diligence,
with just the right amount of worry.
Here, there is no hurry,
only slow decay and several kinds of boredom,
depending on your appetite.
Here there is only flight
without fancy and a light
most discomforting.
These floors I pace with diligence
seem keen to eat me alive.
I’m running out of reasons
not to let them.

-r. miller

4.11.18

Standard

Some days, I wake up
unable to cope with opposite values.
Some days are a lot like today.
It isn’t my birthday, so I have
no reasons for being depressed.
Like that would ever stop me.
Yesterday tried and failed,
tried and failed, until something
resembling a narrative emerged.
It isn’t my birthday, I scream,
and the rest of my yesterdays
swarm, ready to give me the business.

-r. miller