Poems

Scent of Dread In this skin I’m a prisoner, trapped by a scent unseen,washing away fears, in showers that never clean.A lingering notion, a foul, imagined stain,spoiled meat, sour notes, driving me insane.I scrub the phantom from my flesh until it bleeds,yet the stench of my own dread never recedes. Layer on layer, deodorant like […]

Quiet Violence In the mundane silence of our shared space,visions of violence fleetingly trace.No malice fuels this dark reverie,just a curiosity, a twisted fantasy.The shape of his skull under my grip,a fleeting thought, a dangerous trip. Each day draped in the dullness of the routine,breeds thoughts unspoken, cold and serene.Imagining the crush of a windpipe’s

Room 9B Still Smells Like Him Room 9B’s been empty for weeks,but the mattress still creaks like it hears him speak.The air’s too warm where his body laid,and the walls still hum the things he never said. They stripped the sheets and wiped the floors,changed the locks and oiled the doors.But every night around half

Roommate in the Mirror I met her when I cracked at fifteen,smiling back through the bathroom screen.She winked first, I laughed too loud,Mom said I was “just thinking out loud.” Now she lives behind that shiny veil,lipstick thick and skin so pale.She talks in riddles, sings in moans,and answers calls from broken phones. My roommate

Puppet of Patterns I walk these streets, a rhythm in my mind,echoing steps that leave no trace behind.Tap right, tap left, the pavement sings in code,balance the scales that weigh down every road. My hands betray me, flipping switches twice,counting the beats, exacting every price.Mirrors and doors must align just so,chasing the peace that I

Pretend Wounds In the theater of my own creation, I play the lead,crafting scenes where I bleed from needs you can’t see.Pain is my script, illness my prop,with each act, I cage your concern, engage your rage.Fabrications fall from my lips, so sweet,each lie a line in this deceit. I twist symptoms into stories, craft

Porcelain Teeth and Lace Regret They sat her on the shelf where secrets sleep,wrapped in lace, too fragile to weep.Her eyes don’t blink, but they never miss,every lie you told sealed with a kiss. Her lips are stitched with silver thread,each loop a name for the things you fled.She doesn’t cry–but she collects the sound,of

Pillow Creases on Her CheekShe had the imprint of the pillowcase across her face,Mascara smudged beneath both eyes, an absolute disgrace,Of morning beauty, and I had never wanted anyone this bad.She looked wrecked and perfect, and the morning to be had. Was written on her body in the sheet marks and the sweat,Of last night

· Poems in the Light of DayPoems in the Light of Day The lyrical poems of FW Malone Mental. That’s the word.Not insane.Insane belongs to thosewho shatter windows, who screamat walls that cannot answer back. Mental belongs to me. I’m not losing my mind—that’s not what’s happening.My mind has rooms I’ve never seen,corridors stretching past

Patterns of Quiet In the privacy of my own creation, I play the lead,crafting patterns where secrets are laid, where I bleed.Geometric designs upon my skin,a silent record of battles within.Not for the pain, but for the peace it brings,finding quiet in the red that springs. Each hair plucked, an echo of control,a meticulous task