Mark Matthews Poet Bio

Call It a Comeback

I won't ask one question,
just stab my pen in
and draw out the ink,
nothing will stop my flow
with crimson words
and chunky verses.

The night is dark
and streaked with grey.
Mist swirls around my ankles
like a lovers caress.
The moon is up there
  but hidden
         a true hunter's nite.
I walk my lands
       enjoying the stillness,
                 ignoring the living,
they're just here to distract,
             not worth my time.

Fog rolls in
     like sheets of sheer fabric,
                  excluding me,
                       cuddling me.
I can feel the moisture
  building up
      on my skin,
slicking down my body hair,
smearing the blood
coating me.
It's trying to cleanse me
but it won't,
                     can't allow it,
       I'm enjoying this too much.

This is just my brake
from the hunt,
a day to let myself
                  grow hollow.
I see a silhouette
of my castle up on the cliff
The grounds below me
   are finally springing back.
My gnarled trees
               flourishing,
the bushes are flowered
               and spiky,
still a bit drab
           but that's how i like it.

Licking the platelets
        from my fingers
I keep moving
           (just like my quill)
gliding across my parchment
filling in the blanks 
                 with silence
                    too loud to hear,
too quiet to resist,
ripping into the foundation
hard enough to stop civilization,
making them wait
              for what I have to say.

Ash falls before my eyes
as the masses wait,
they don't realize 
I have nothing to say,
I'm just here to stir the cauldron
              get the juices boiling.
Havoc is my creation,
                 my spawn,
                 my lover,
the taste that sits in the back
           of my mouth.
Can you hear me
      screaming in the back
           of your head,
saying the things
         you dare not think about
and leaving that
   metallic taste
           in your mouth
as your lip bleeds.

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