Ink Persona

"To Kill a Juliet"

Tue, 02 Apr 2013 20:01:19 -0400

I grip the cup, it’s heavy. More than liquid is here.
Head aching, palms sweaty - fingers dripping my fears.
I caress the glass; myself on the skin of the drink -
a silhouette of a past that feels foreign to me.

It’s tormenting me, the picture of before in my eyes.
It flickers for a moment, almost torn from my mind.
I see a happiness I had, not even a month out,
with my wife and my son enjoying our new house.
Our move South was to save me pain from headaches.
The plan worked well enough til the day my meds came.

Now, the cup trembles with the flow of my nerves.
I’ve found the worse the pain, the more potent the curse.
Healing’s an afterthought, but more of a false promise
luring master-cards away with the sway of a false prophet.

The venom in all tonics swallows the good intentions,
the severity of that’s what the bottle doesn’t mention-
didn’t say that when I poured myself a fourth of a cup,
I’d drink up and recognize even less the man I was.

-Quill

"Chess & Sex"

Tue, 26 Mar 2013 20:16:28 -0400

I’m wise enough to size her up, thick lips…
type to rush knights front with a quickness.
I’m listless on the outside, vicious on the in,
to win is my intention - from the game to her id.

I play with a mix of tact and past lessons,
no passive aggression, but my passion’s aggressive.
The way she moves to match is impressive,
every time I push, she attacks with new leverage.

Each move’s a weapon let loose in just seconds,
wars rage in the minutes, none given to get a breath in.
They pass in tens; I don’t feel the time slide.
Bishops on the side, mortified by the war crimes.

It’s hers or mine, the win is still set to chase…
Two lovers, and each wants to check the mate.

-Quill

"The Storyteller"

Sat, 23 Mar 2013 17:29:00 -0400

The man spoke in low tones with cold eyes,
he told tales of old flights and boat rides.
Most nights, his audience applauded him;
not really sure if these tales all belonged to him.

Still, they went along with them, stuck on every word.
Even though the stories were increasingly absurd.
The people, undeterred, lived for the man’s stories,
giving up their lives for vicarious glory.

Some shaved off day jobs for words of the bard,
to chase lost causes in that wondrous bar.
They cast away every single piece of corporation,
while the man sold thoughts about the greatest explorations.

They vested faith in the man as he painted them pictures.
Slick words reigned in elated pretenders.
The weight of the ventures splintered jaded beginners,
because at this point… the man only catered to winners.

Each that gave up structure was the apple of his eye,
and every word he spoke, meant to satisfy their high.
At the end of this man’s life, these outcasts will come together…
with the stories he once told to continue the storyteller.

-Quill

"In the Style of the Chapel"

Tue, 12 Mar 2013 17:47:06 -0400

Folded hands atop a bible, it’s my role.
Psalms flow quick as the wine goes.
When bells and chimes toll,
bottles disappear and mass is spiteful.
Brimstone’s my home, this tone they know,
but they come, they go for tales from this tome, so…

I speak the pages, reap the age when
men ruled religion and freed the nation.
Cause thought’s a burden, will’s the same,
why not kill a goat and displace the pain,
take the skies as places where the angels lie,
and men can fly, provide we repent and die?

-Quill

"False Step" Feat. The Mad Artist

Tue, 12 Mar 2013 01:56:38 -0400

You delight in my misery,
dance upon my bleeding heart.
You salt the hearth where love once bred.

You mistake the seed for salt.
Misery doesn’t delight the soul,
It stands as the dance’s name.

The dance?
That blessed tango of reckless abandon?
Sweet, merciful liar where have our love gone?

The steps are second nature.
Memories past call its elegance to block its name.
Lover, I dance between truths to save you their pain.

And in that moment,
That moment between half-truths,
The love we once had was engulfed in the turbulent sea.

Clear waters beneath black skies.
The steps were to stir no more than the heart.
Sinking beneath the waves, where are we now?

-Quill and The Mad Artist

Tumblr of The Mad Artist

"Tree Branch Dreamer"

Sun, 10 Mar 2013 23:09:43 -0400

Another time around the block. Stock look with book bag.
Average student, not much to look at.
He was hooked bad - mad for music. He lacked attunement.
It was sad, but true. Kid had no knack for the path he moved.
Jazz was smooth, blues proved equally slick.
He would just sit and spin accompanies with the sticks.
Off beat as he was, kid was elite in his mind,
leading the times with sticks, leaves still on the vine.

-Quill

"Sum Of It All"

Tue, 05 Mar 2013 18:41:13 -0500

I put a little of my history in each association,
‘til my past is my present and I lose the strength to face it.
The days I filled with anguish repeat until I trust…
that the me I built today isn’t half the man I was.

-Quill

"Luxuries of a Poor Poet"

Tue, 26 Feb 2013 19:35:00 -0500

I listened up, wide eyed and child-like ‘til my suspicions sunk.
He spoke of whole visions from wishes he wants to give to us.
Me and a friend of his. Then on a whim he said,
“That’s about the gist of all of this, are you interested?”

I fought a minute, recalling all he had mentioned then.
A woman brought up on thought and hearts of lesser men.
All eccentric with penchants for intellectuals,
I was all set to go, thoughts a little sexual…

Fast forward, she’s more than I could’ve hoped for.
Mind bright as mine, and divine behind closed doors.
I’d give a line about her shape, but honest…
She’s more into the fact she graduated with honors.

-Quill

Pride in Predictability.

Tue, 19 Feb 2013 16:47:40 -0500

I’m going to regularly update my blog. I’m back. For reals this time.

Usually, I’ll post small poems I’ve written, as a way to keep the writing muscles in shape. Twice a week, though, I’ll post more in-depth poems to push myself, and hopefully entertain you all.

That’s the plan.

"Fistful of Caviar"

Tue, 19 Feb 2013 16:36:00 -0500

He dreams of a 3-Piece with the shiny bottoms,
Ivy League. Half these a crime spree got him.
The other half, the school, takes a little more than force;
and a little more than fourth from the registers in stores.
He was stuck, petty cash couldn’t realize his passions -
the books and the math and the friends and the classes.
The end would be his past, he was growing up backwards,
thinking thieving threw his future closer to his Master’s.

-Quill

"Makeshift Bus Stops"

Sun, 09 Dec 2012 20:26:59 -0500

Cold hands and warm smiles,
we formed lines along the aisles.
Each child was in the center so
adults could block the winter snow.

Kids didn’t know why they couldn’t go and sleep,
but the orders of the lead were absolute to the team.
Some would dream, but they were waking terrors.
Brought on when they’d drift, loosely gripped by dazed parents.

I noticed. But, I never said a word.
Focused on the pulses, slowed to intervals absurd.
Some couldn’t preserve the life inside that they held so tightly.
Days passed and we died in greater numbers nightly.
They still sang and smiled through the tears to the last.
Even celebrating me, the driver that caused the crash.

"Flintlock Wordplay"

Mon, 03 Dec 2012 03:40:08 -0500

Put your tongue to your lips and light the flame to start it all.
This game’s the only one we know and it’s a cinch to set it off.
I get a call and it’s from you, the spark is halfway in existence.
I speak powder to your blaze, a path straight to the resistance.
You’re persistent with the stance, each word fans the flame,
and my rebuttal only serves to add more ammo to the game.

Camou’s not an option, stopping’s gotten zero play.
So this war wages on with no hero on the way.
Let it go. The first shot was lost to the past.
We’re just killing ghosts with time for as long as the echo lasts.

"Get a Way"

Sun, 02 Dec 2012 13:51:34 -0500

More credit cards than friendships. A life lived through bar codes.
I party hard like you might do, but my wall’s up ‘til bar close.
I file into my car alone. I start it up, and next to me…
is a girl I can’t recall, but she’s half undressed and pressed to me.
We drive off, I’m tipsy. Her hands roam and she kisses me.
Switch the name and day’s date, but they’re all the same escape to me.

Problems, I’ve got them. Maybe more than man’s average.
I plan backwards - more baggage than space, I’m an addict.

-Quill

"Peace of a Whole"

Wed, 22 Aug 2012 22:06:51 -0400

Looking around, I can’t tell exactly what I’m meant to do,
but half of me is calling out to tear my other half from you.
Live is what I have to do, dead is how I’d rather be,
and I’m too afraid to face either way and take responsibility.

I’ll fake it, say I’m killing me or smile while I play with life,
but I’ll never come first in anyone’s eyes-
‘til one of us lives and the other one.

dies.

-Quill

"Alone Together"

Thu, 26 Jul 2012 10:16:24 -0400

We’re both here, no fear, no hate, just love.
Just us, in this room with insatiable lust.
I face you and touch the swell of your hips.
You say nothing, but I can tell you’re ready for this.
I unwrap you, enraptured by the arch of your back,
the feel of your skin, love, there’s nothing you lack.
I take a step to your left, push you back by your hips…
Give a quick lick to your thighs, then push in the tip.
I pump like mad, and my cell gets a call.

It’s my mom with “whatcha doin’?”

“Just inflating my blow-up doll.”

-Quill

"A Few Drinks From Home"

Sat, 14 Jul 2012 14:39:49 -0400

There might be a little more to life than right now,
but tonight I’m on the town with half a mind I plan to drown.
Another round, a couple wings I’m gonna stuff into a napkin,
this no “to-go” policy’s been looking for some action.
I finish the deed, then clean my hands in my water…
and see the sauce on the plate’s in the shape of our daughter.
I wasted no time and snapped a pic of the food,
captioned it up, and sent the picture to you.
Call me a fool, but I know what I saw.
Call me a liar… just call me at all.

-Quill

"Pointless Pen"

Tue, 03 Jul 2012 10:48:28 -0400

“Why don’t you write…”

It was a text from the woman that keeps me alive.
I played with the question for a minute, then five.
I’ll admit it this time, I couldn’t answer it then.
But looking inside, there’s a cancer within.

I can’t dance with my thoughts - footwork’s a mess.
I can usurp the strays which aren’t causing the stress,
and the days where I’m falling, failing to cope…
Are the days I tripped up, shoestrings around my throat.

I’m that bad. It’s not that I don’t want to write again…
but if ink won’t pierce the surface, it’s a pretty pointless pen.

-Quill

"Iron-Clad Rainbows"

Wed, 27 Jun 2012 19:07:00 -0400

Take the ocean, raise it and mount it in your house.
Go and frame it then announce this to everyone you’ve found.
Let them look at it’s beauty, touch the skin of the waves…
Then watch each one of the bastards take shots at what you’ve made.

They hate when you succeed, even breathe while we’re at it.
It’s not the way the world was made, but hatred’s seething with addicts.
We could reach another plane of life then teach them to reach it,
and they’d say you’re the reason why before they couldn’t see it.

There’s no fault, it’s not your mind, nothing wrong with how you’re raised.
Your achievements are a sign that you’re more than what they say.
Don’t let them talk, or even smile, they show every that isn’t.
Since, in truth, all these kids are just jealous because your different.

-Quill

"Brushstroke Bloodshed"

Wed, 27 Jun 2012 17:58:35 -0400

They were friends, a collective, that stretched thin their bonds.
The beginning wasn’t wrong, but something happened later on.
Wanting magic from the fabric that allowed the team to thrive,
they each attacked the other til’ just one was left alive.
The rewards didn’t pour like the lone survivor thought,
and the core of why they fought didn’t justify the loss.
All they’d sought was a minute in which they could be themselves,
and that minute turned to years, and those years turned to hell.

When the last survivor fell, groups moved to replace her -
damning other’s art to view who the muse favors.

-Quill

"Patchwork Casket"

Mon, 25 Jun 2012 11:23:00 -0400

My son is in there! I rushed the sea of blankets where he slept.
My heart dropped with every step, eyes locked upon the mess.
I peeled the top away to knock astray the chill that took my spine,
but my son’s face wasn’t there, and I was running out of time.

A second quilt I’d never owned was tucked under the first,
wrapped around a third and sapped my strength in quick bursts.
The picture hit worse than I thought an image allowed.
and I stopped to give thought to what exactly I had found.

They were chronicles - tales of a life that wasn’t lived,
and by finding all of this, his life was mine to give.
I saw his ugly death, along with years in a factory.
Every secret of his life was revealed in the tapestry.
If I peel back the last of these, I could find my child…
but maybe the best gift I can give is an end while he still smiles.

-Quill