Poetry: This One Is Pretty Much Untitled.


In Honor of Valentines/Singles Awareness Day, this weeks blog topic is going to be about love. So, enjoy this love poem I wrote about love in general, and my one true love, Music. This poem is pretty much untitled, but I think the photograph sums it up pretty well. 

Standing beneath beams of diminished darkness, a mask of sweat glistened upon your face.

Time froze as a crowd waited for you to mount a stage that reeked of dust bunnies.

Heat radiated from numerous bodies to fill barely existing space.

The walls bared paint chips of various colors, while nostalgia seeped through the cracks.


Coffee rings from mug bottoms marked the table tops.

A cigarette dipped in ash fell to the floor, 

Sprinkling a mess of ember upon the glazed concrete.

Nearby, a man ported a box to the back of the shop,

Filled with tinted bottles of whiskeys and rums.

Even you could not name them.


They reminded you of your best friend, drunk almost every evening,

While you’d drop yourself upon my tangle of sheets,

And spew waves like the Pacific’s from your eyes in the place of tears.

But tonight, we would marinate our minds in melody,

For this would be the last we’d spend together for a while.


The clock made its way seconds past eight, and you strummed the first chord.

It resonated through the amps— a distorted sound, far removed, 

As if played from miles away.

Through inner ears, echoed a warm sound, 

Trickling from your lips, with lyrics to match.

Only I knew the meaning of the compilation of metaphors,

Expelling thoughts I’m sure you would have told me,

If You’d’ve gotten up the nerve.


The applause rang temperate to me,

But a sunrise gleamed from your teeth.

Clammy hands kept rhythm of the kick drum’s pulse, 

Until the final crash of the rusty high hat.

Tired throats croaked out words of praise.

Your eyes danced with sorrow, as a lustful “I LOVE YOU!” was chanted

 From a mouth that wasn’t my own.


The lights faded, and the crowd scattered as you escaped through hidden doors.

You recognized my mass of bottled-black curls heading in home’s direction.

A horde of other faces were clustered before a bus containing your temporary bed.


White lights flashed like strobes, paired with the sound of clicking Nikon’s.

Arms flung around your neck, empty kisses smeared your cheeks.

You’ve never heard from your own mother, your own name called so many times.

With the last strokes of a sharpie, your hand grew limp.

The crowd by now dwindled down to security.


Streaks of an urban view through tinted window.

You would study them until morning’s arrival.

A red line through another scheduled location,

the town you’d known since high school.


You told me you would be back soon,

but  I couldn’t hold you to it,

Because you’ve got more fans than our towns entire population.