michaelpatrickhughes

Home is where the heart is My heart lies with you You lay with another man Looks like I won't be home tonight...

Ever had something to say just couldn't find a way hoped there may come a day when they won't be calling you insane? Did you ever think equations were supposed to mean? he then at last descend on Earth the child who explored the Cosmos wanted to speak and no one listened The kid died. What are words without a meaning? dull. just as me "insane" they cry what's wrong with me? "your head's an empty carcass" I guess that should be wanted to speak she wanted to listen never said a thing Eventually I'll wither and she'll keep shining I'll see her again somewhere sometime... "insane" they cry my words are lacking meaning just as me she is my li

the astronauts never returned and neither did the news in my hands i fold a megalithic pigeon the take-home message is: the cosmos is a cold dead bitch as you sleep under magazines, waiting for nothing. in the shackles of a sterilized den, there's an actual mastodon heart, pale and glassy pink, icy film tightened like a fist;  - and the scientists despair:    it's the morning of the opening, then the few slashes of paralyzing waves. like a sign we'd make when we were younger, a way to disarm a bandit, or a preacher                 or the oncoming horde of space invaders. but the drawings you sent to venus never returned,  and now the cra

We never notice. Our alarm doesn't ring, it sings Pharell beating our mornings 'til we remove from our snooze. We forgot the tink-tinker or bleep-fuck-bleeper and emerge the same. The same commute to work: Heads sunk, tired eyes drunk by thumb movements. Our ears dumb locked into a Will-I-Am trance. Not a glance of the changing scenes; the only birds we see are angry. The same office echoes with tip-tip-tip-tapping of emails blaming others and smack-talking. instead of actual talking. We fall for the hype of Skype and only Siri’s voice drones narrow answers we accept as truth.   The same playground, huddled corners; Children pick

I dream of wolves every night. There are times when I simply watch them race through cold, shrouded forests. When I stretch out a trembling hand and silently beg one of them to place their muzzle against my fingers so that I may feel true strength with my own skin. When my heart pounds louder than a summer storm as they sprint together in one pack, their breaths stirring together in savage harmony. When I long to run alongside them, my soul more free than I could ever possibly imagine. And then there are times where I am one of them. I can taste the crisp moonlight on my tongue as my paws kick up half-frozen mud; I can smell the fervor of t

i. you can't erase me like an incorrect answer. I have started to learn that being wrong is nectar, taste it like honey at the back of your throat, embrace it the way your spine would embrace your mattress after a long, tiring day. you cannot rub it away; this is our natural tattoo. engrave it on your skin, remind yourself that the path you walk is forever under construction. the important thing is that we keep building. ii. we have an instinct to fight. not long ago I may have compared humans to intricate things like roses, but now I think we are stronger than that. call us white blood cells. we do not rest. our battles are internal

cigarette smoke and alcohol the fumes embedding in the wall cocaine lines in bathroom stalls: our generation, we have it all misguided teens, with dying dreams (poured down the drain by languid veins) the clinking of glasses and racing hearts, we cannot stop what we did start it's all an escape- a sick paradox: we're running from ourselves.

Opening the zipper With her teeth, Ignoring the whispers From the room over Some outraged girls shrieks "Did you see her Just drag him in like that? What a slut!" The girl she speaks to replies "I know! She probably as HAIDS Or something!" These girls say this Like they're virgins, They're not, I know that for a fact She has the button undone By this point, They're halfway down, The fun is halfway there She's not just a player, She invented this whole game Hope he Can handle the heat Boy in the next room Highfives his pal "Glad someone nailed that, Not that it's hard or anything" His pal laughs "Say the man Not

i. we were seventeen when you promised me that this tiny dustbowl of a southern town was not going to be everything my life was made of. it wasn't hard to believe because the maps you'd spread across your ceiling never lied (since you claimed it was easier to dream when they were stuck above you in the night). i remember the lines you'd drawn in a felt pen, red because it seemed important, seemed louder than the rest, and i remember how you would trace the roads with your eyes until you fell asleep. you had a knack for memorizing every escape route, and when i asked why you answered that it was because one day you would have to run