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Mike Stott Poem
Lover, Lover
The nighttime sings our names
Ballads of the figurative Juliet
Radios hiss hearts spilled the shadows hide naked ambition stilled
Neglected emotional hills wafts through valleys of past lives
Karmic backlogs review their closing percentages
Futures flood the floors hold the line between fate and tears
Shadow people alone in the twilight
Illuminated letters, walls woed to sleep
Dreams from the shoreline as phantom vessels waltz on the silver linings
Postures of stable footing, top of the line, kings and queens of value
Thumbs circle the knuckles, bone kisses bone, the familiar taste of home
Haunted hems lines explored in tribal pursuits
Please keep me waiting
The specter of tender frames evaporates
Morning ghosts caress the memory in travel
Neckties versus deadlines
Power brokered, breath that betrays the dream
Folded napkins
Cocktail napkin epitaphs
Check please
Copyright © Mike Stott | Year Posted 2026
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Mike Stott Poem
Not an original dream, or word computes this time.
Following the leader and daisy chains that litter a long way out.
Gunfire and bomb scares are louder now in flashes of time blink on and off.
House lights that communicate in waves.
Words fumble and flood from mouths that salivate for aesthetically pleasing scenery.
Forever bleeding as jars overflow and litter the pathway home.
Colorless pictures of disorganized emotions processed in unique points.
Starry eyes buried under the veil of cobwebs that keep us tucked in real tight.
Dismal bricks of someday wisdom drag behind.
Our burial sites scattered among landscapes that you knew us in.
Roses for summer.
Pumpkins in fall
Winter poinsettias brighten up the grave mood.
Barricades that promote wellness in the bodies you knew us by lay solemnly still.
Among the grass, and snow dirty heads half spirited in the soil.
The calm as the literal hearts break in time, wilted flowers that dust reminds is still dust.
Folded notes in time gray to black
Emotional highs and lows wail on high against the current of dreamscapes
In waves the house lights die.
In waves the origins hush.
In waves the scene fades.
Over and out the prayers of what we can't let go drags the graves in chain gangs.
Marching with incentive.
Never to turn back time.
Fold the letter.
Forget my name.
You've buried me in pieces of mind in fall cemetery rain.
Hear the bells.
It's beyond the see, and saw the dream wake down on my knees.
Mercy me.
The soft kills me every time.
Copyright © Mike Stott | Year Posted 2026
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Mike Stott Poem
The more I bite the deeper becomes the trap.
Buried beneath the dust that pours.
The ghosts that haunt laugh and bind.
Daylight opens one eye as watering words sprinkle in shedding limbs of cleaner breaks
Floor boards concave underneath the embalmed cool as the rooms float on.
The elevated tombs that require little to no sacrifice each move intended to keep the soul locked away.
Weighted words, heavy tides of time where the laughter that sings on the fringe of our dreams.
Ruins of where we once were found.
Hands raised there is no fight left to fight.
Porch lights still beat the day time skies wondering where the boats that dream of hills spend their time dressed in pastel highlights.
In the moments poison gumdrops of wisdom rain as the backbones straighten through the floor.
Faces lit in golden shadows where dreams baste the buns of gourmet arrivals to the places where we dream to never fear the most.
Talks of endless reigns that shower on in the fabric of meta permeation as the broken homes disguised as the only way to die and let die sinks into the cool nights where the skeleton children breed with the thoughts of impending dread, smiles only flicker for a second as the salute of the dead fades the dirge they sing ring out moths clean up in smaller pockets of silence.
Ships sink in the night as the sole survivors bloom on
Dreams that bleed gold ignite as the hope fills
Worn down by joy
The sails full against the sky.
We have new ways to try.
Copyright © Mike Stott | Year Posted 2026
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Mike Stott Poem
No one is home.
The address is returned to sender.
The user you desire to speak is no longer available.
To send a numeric page please press five now.
Ferment in the waiting room of life.
The catacombs of the mind are empty.
From the grave they will not rise.
The life you once knew is now fleeted.
You're out of time.
Exhale. Inhale. Exhale again.
False memory is not gospel.
Queue the piano, and bring in some coffee to go.
Crack a smile.
Adjust your tie.
Goodbye.
Copyright © Mike Stott | Year Posted 2026
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Mike Stott Poem
The heaviest sound lays us to rest
Tied to the steak and eats our heart out
Composure fixed to the evening sky
Swivel the scenery then throw me away when I am colored dead
Let's all pose then fall down the well together
Understudies for the part we weren't meant to play
Courage for cowards in the rewriter's chair beating the around the rose bush
Sink thirty thousand feet into the shoes too narrow for human feats.
Back to factory settings until you can learn how to sing let alone speak our names
Caution tape leashes the struggle bus in gear on your best days
One step further than slipping up on a Monday, blue and battered
I wake up to the sight of the out of boundaries shred to pieces
Water for the pills stuck in swallowing fashion
Wings tied to the bed abstract as ever
We dreamt of the rise and fall of the house of us
Blueprints of further disappointment with marble inlays to hold onto this moment
Shock jocks of jealous siblings gnashing at ankles going home
Nostalgic for chaos and that bitter root
I didn't know that I was this obvious
Innocence donated with and without the will to live
Copyright © Mike Stott | Year Posted 2026
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Mike Stott Poem
Lock up your guns and count the cost
Carve up the soul, buy back debts still foaming with froth
Blank stares for the logic so deep as the sea can see
Second handed stories crisp on ends that flutter up from flames through trees
Dog pile into the ashes of hometown sweethearts turned inward, and downward
Spiraled lives intertwined, dinner for schmucks lit by neon flights
Relentless ego pulses for a breath of fresh air, despising the days with small beginnings
Future proof that fatal attractions have come and gone
And all that's left is the cynic bound on endless holidays
We cut our teeth in the hollows of garages damp with the death and life of the funeral ancestry
Fresh blood to be spilled against foundational methods of aura farming
Foundlings of ghosts that circle the lighthouses torn down in panic
Now adrift on hostile waters, while hosting this season's drowning parties
Loaded on shock rock and rotting junk
Fishing for certainty in a sea we can't afford to be
Souls who owe too much to stay above the piss and vinegar drink we serve to thee
Absent deaths in hollow identical musings
Deny any parts unknown gathers the residuals
Bite that tongue, hollow out your words
Friendlier fires come through here every now and then
Copyright © Mike Stott | Year Posted 2026
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