Twelve by Matt Finney

gentle pastel

i was tired and i was the father of someone else’s children. i didn’t have any money or religion and i was a stranger. i wanted you to leave. i’ve been here too many times before.
—–

centuries, turning

there is no truth and why would you argue? stop pretending you were born for a greater purpose. it’s enough to be alive.
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artifact

you can try but you’ll go nowhere. you can use your children as shields but you’ll never be safe. look at all the mistakes you’ve made just to get here.
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the defeatist

i listen for intruders while my children sleep and i go over the list of people i need to apologize to. i used to be hopeless now i’m without hope. i didn’t mean to waste my life writing poems.
—–
fireplace road

i was thinking about hatred and all of the ways it could be turned into power. i was wanting to hold onto my sons. i was afraid.

—-

edge of the world

all of you can see of cobain in that last picture is his right arm and his right leg but you know he’s dead. you know the future is bleeding with possibility.

chorus

you don’t have to be beaten or scarred. you don’t even have to speak, but you will. what i’m trying to say is i love you. what i’m remembering is the feeling.

—–

with broken fists

what i fear is being 40 and then 45 and then 50. time is the enemy here. the weight of it smothers everything else.

—-

recluse

it’s never been us against them. it’s me against you. i will lock my doors and turn away from the mirrors. this is hatred on a personal level. i don’t want a part of anything anymore.

—-

ghosts with teeth

maybe the gas chambers won’t be filled. maybe this isn’t a poem.
maybe it’s just guilt. that’s all anything ever is.

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the deep

the roads are lies and at what point do you stop believing in them? at what age do you move beyond the edge of the poem and grow up? in the end, you can only reject or embrace your failure.

—

arrival

think about your father and all of the lies he ever told you. how all they make you is tired. think about his fists and then think about the day you stopped running. no religion has ever been this pure.

Matt Finney is a writer from millbrook, alabama.  His myspace page is: www.myspace.com/synonymforhurt

Also, you can check out his band website: www.myspace.com/finneyerkes