Poetry and Prose

Bourbon and Cigarettes

For a moment,
My lips were graced
By something so much sweeter
Than the bitter aftertaste
Of remorse and cigarettes
That I’ve been cursed with
In the absence of your presence.
I savored every second
Familiar flavors danced
On my parched tongue.
And in that moment,
I thought I tasted you again,
But it could’ve been the bourbon.

-D.A. Baker

Poetry and Prose

Staring Strangers

She smiles, staring strangers spark something sacred, scared sentiments segue sequels scarred. Such softly spoken sentences, sequenced seductively, signaling synapses, soaring. Sparingly showing service sent, silent solutions solemnly sought. Space shared spontaneously separate, spreading speeches swiftly smoldered.

-D.A. Baker

Poetry and Prose

Barely Breathing

Her body is steadily crumbling
From the weight of the world she’s holding.
Her shoulders folding from the pressure,
The pushing and pulling.

She’s breaking away
Like shards of glass,
Falling away with pieces
Slicing at her insides.
Tearing away at the decaying
Remains of the depths of her soul;
It’s cold and chilling.

Scaring herself with scars
She’s wearing now,
Thin lines blurring
What she’s seeing,
She’s screaming for help.

Her eyes glistening,
Tearing up,
Held back from dropping;
Collapsing under the fear
Of her own frailty.

She’s gasping,
Rib cage sinking,
Lungs crushing
As the maddening waves
Come crashing.

She’s fighting
And bleeding,
Desperately seeking a reason
To keep on being.

Though she’s barely breathing
Her heart continues beating.

-D.A. Baker

Poetry and Prose

Ghost of Graves

The spirit of death follows her
Like the ghost of graves yet to be.
Life wilts ‘neath the touch of her hand
As she absorbs the broken and used;
Embodying the sullen and bruised.
Her soul belongs to the eternal
Nighttime lust of human craving.
The world trembles before her
Answering every beckon and call.
She’s known by many names,
Death has claimed her his bride,
We simply refer to her as, Time;
The ghost of graves we’ll one day meet.

-D.A. Baker

Poetry and Prose

If (You Matter)

If I had an endless supply of ink
I’d probably spill it with every word I think
A continuously flowing line
Syncopated by rhythm and time
An unstructured sentence
That’s vaguely reminiscent
And leaves you caught in the moment

If I had the vocabulary
I’d ramble incoherently
To the point where I question
Whether a spark is connection
I’d over think each conversation
Slowly elating with anticipation
But thank you for participating

If I could use a thunderous voice
To cut through the incessant noise
I’d quiet the chatter
Just to whisper you matter

-D.A. Baker

Poetry and Prose

In Vino Veritas

In vino veritas;
In this liquid I trust
To loosen my tongue
In remembrance of being young.
Telling tales of a rambling poet,
The bearer of buried secrets.
A weaver of worlds like a storyteller
Of truths hidden deep in a cellar.
Kept under steel locks and key,
These safeguarded pieces of me;
Reserved for a select few,
A soul for my own to choose.
So come and sit with me,
Stay until the daylight bleeds.
We’ll drink this wine and then
Drunkenly confess our sins;
List them by the number,
All while we lull
The moon to its slumber.

-D.A. Baker

Poetry and Prose

Stranger With a Pen

Things get stranger with a pen.
I’m already estranged by my grin,
More of a stranger than a friend.
Obviously, my thoughts wear you thin.

Sometimes, I’m a lonely mess, and then
I speak out, with my heart held in hand.
These anxious feelings start rising again,
I’m no longer a soldier playing pretend.

It’s like living with a haunting sin
When in the room you’ve always been,
The one that fears live and multiply in;
Your sanity in a box marked, “The End.”

Things get stranger with a pen,
And madness speaks from within.

-D.A. Baker