It feels muted.
Like a bubbling ache, miming the mince of my patronising murk.
The peevish petulance of my prejudice prompts an abandoned frugality so thinned to a destined demise.
Unlaced.
Untied.
Undone.
A portal so honed to the residual refine of my extinction.
The sterling silver glints off the ashen sheds of my abandoned flesh; she looks like a platter.
Each serving an amortisation to the segments of my pestilent seethe.
Every atom of her making nurtures a barbaric famine to the fester of her feud.
Each larceny a sacrificial suckle for the prosperity of her condemn.
I feel my ruins spewing in a sovereign decay of a cataclysm so heinous in its destruction.
So sinister in its devaluation.
So predatory in its death.
It feels muted; all my days blending one.
All my days blending into the countdown to my censure.
My day of reckoning.
A villain is a tireless workhorse,
Endlessly plotting through the night,
With schemes that twist and turn, of course,
Each detail honed to sheer delight.
His intellect stands sharp and rare,
A mastermind in every glance,
Unraveling minds with subtle care—
A psychological elegant dance.
He wields his gifts with cunning grace,
Turning chaos into high art,
Building empires none can erase,
Yet always playing the shadowed part.
If only he would pivot toward the light,
Channel that brilliance for the good,
Imagine worlds both fair and bright—
Where villains host the neighborhood.
They might devise the perfect plan
For flawless gardens, neat and grand,
Or orchestrate a traffic jam
That somehow leads to helping hands.
No grand explosions, just quiet wins,
A world where heroes rest at ease,
And every scheme at last begins
With kindness wrapped in mysteries.
What wonders then would greet the day,
When even darkness learns to play.
People used to be so dedicated to their work.
They took pride in and had passion for what they did.
It was understood that a job well done had its perks.
That work ethic was instilled in me as a kid.
So, as I got older and found something I enjoyed,
I honed my skills and perfected my every move.
I was careful and knew exactly what to avoid,
But, like everything, there’s always room to improve.
I work at night, when hardly anyone is around.
But, once in a while, you might see me coming.
As I come up behind you and take you to the ground,
The only thing you’ll hear is my taser humming.
i do not notice the peeling white polish on my nails. the blinding mirror has betrayed me once more and now my body wants in. i now bite my nails but i do not notice its bitter tang—my eyes are paralyzed to the screen as it dissects me; it is the first to forsake me. the mirror is false. in the scrutinizing eye of the camera each imperfection seizes the spotlight; beneath all layers of falsity—the smudged eyeliner, the thick lashes, the sharp-smelling nail polish—lies a pathetic 16-year-old girl who can only pray for a way to fix her face, her body, her smile, her laugh— she can only lay motionless as she gouges out her stomach with the hope that by morning, appetites will become nothing more than a myth. the mirror cannot help but lie when the little girl engrossed in fantasies of magic, greek gods, and the idea that she could become anything now cannot see further than the hand-held mirror inches from her face and the honed blade of the tweezer tips gripped between her mangled fingernails that lay like salivating wolves ready to pounce on the next blemish— the mirror cannot help but lie.
Written: June 19, 2026, for a contest sponsored by John Lawless
*******************
Composing in twenty-five words—
a challenge,
where every syllable
competes for air.
Meaning is honed,
essence distilled,
and the poem morphs
into a fragile
tightrope stretched
above
silence.
it’s 12 again
i find my bare arms pressed up against the hard mirror/shower door
it lives a double life
my breath fogs up the glass
it keeps me warm
razor-like metal dig into my fingers as i grip the tweezers
it’s ironic how something so sharp can bring such comfort.
i stare at the inky dot right above the thicket of hair i call my eyebrow
only visible to the scrutinizing eye inches away
the painted lady on the surface of that unyielding metal smiles at me
i do not notice.
her unforgiving claws disguised as the honed tweezer tips stab into the flesh surrounding that jet-black dot
doing all she can to extract the imperfection
and when she finally succeeds
and the uprooted dot reveals its true identity as a helpless strand of hair
whose only crime was its misfortunate growth
i feel no remorse — rather, relief —
only the twinge of pain
and another lasting scarlet scab
right above my eyebrow
reminds me of the wave of shame soon to come
i soon forget
as i spot another dot
desiring to reignite my ritual of comfort.
This poem is honed alone,
Lined and timed for the Lozer Zone...
Prone to be prose if it grows like Pinocchio’s nose,
Yet, as far as that goes...
Who knows?
The strong current twisted and turned,
So much so surely no man dare enter.
However newly inhabited in this devilish stream:
A school of ridged rocks tumbled by.
Among this school, rolled the most honed of them all.
As he rolled he noticed the dulling of his fellow rocks.
they tossed and turned as the river quickened their erosion,
However,
Different from the rest.
This rock was adamant on maintaining his unique edges.
Finally,
After seasons of resistance,
The school graduated to the shore.
Upon arrival the young rock looked to his mates,
To find that they had smoothed their irregularities,
And he was secluded from their congruence.
The emphysema of night presses into our lungs
and I walk towards you like a thought I should not keep
no glow - only the purple bruise of air between us
your silence is jagged, honed as a blade
somehow, this view left me ... dismantled, piece by unseen piece
fear feels domestic here, like folded linen in a locked room
I dissolve before I can speak out loud
and still, I step closer because trust is the only light we are allowed
and when we finally reach for one another, it is not sight that holds us -
but the quiet certainty that neither of us will let go
Dismally dashing, clashing cankering, sunken ravines
Braved the batterings of the black, heaving sea
Seized upon the cyclical stream ‘lined ‘long the wind
Yonder b’yond the decrepit hail,
Nailing mine knees upon this hill.
I sang by a bygone cheer, a childish chortle
Honed where, and whence
Mine woes wade with homeward hopes.
Now, where one dare awoke,
a-top such the slope
To sing a song that shall beat at the bulkheads,
of the boats borne below
A sonnet sung to arise with the seeds of the soil
Arise as a rose
Manned with the majesty, the masculinity,
Of the man within me.
So to see the afflicting affections,
Of the sanctity without me.
So to see and reel in the eel,
Of un-static enthusiasm.
So to know, mine might may deem me,
Not the man within me,
A dastardly indelicate dame.
11//5//2026
You first sought my trembling hand in perfectly sown, soft-honed land.
When our lips quiver gripped with virgin steam by an aloof stream,
time flared our romantic, teenage passion through forest-spiced air.
We lost logic under starry skies devoted to our sighs.
Years did not fray my feelings for our time in youth's twilight rays.
I oft wonder if peaked, bare recall tenderly takes you there ....
A finely honed art, excelling at darts
~ similar to lighting farts
A golden mote grates
on dusky blue
portent of divine excellence
radiant white nestling
in the humble nook
honed by an oyster
who unveils prized secrets
of the deep
in shadowed places.
We all have many fragile parts
and life throws many sharp honed darts.
Do you find comfort when pain hits its mark,
inside the blackest of your dark?
Is there someone who would hold you
should you abruptly fall apart?
Is there someone in your life who is
truly invested in your heart?
Pain and joy are same hand deal
both have rope to claim us all.
Some pain we cannot conceal.
We need arms as a healing shawl.
Even the strongest in faith
may break from all life takes.
We will all bear pains that scathe.
Healings are what love can make.
Is there someone you could hold
should they fall apart?
Is there someone who believes
you are invested in their heart?
A smirk ghosts
by torn lips
razored puce
and throbbing wild
to fire a fusillade
of mortar murmurs
armed with fangs
honed in cauldrons
belching molten words
to palsy the gainsay
of jesters
who scarify and behead
bliss.
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