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[b4cfec]

Let it out, let it out, let it out

Let the molasses of emotions spill all over your dress

Everything is a mess, your fingers are stuck together

What are you to do other than lick every bit of it up?

To taste the bitterness of loneliness and being trapped

To feel the film of guilt on your tongue

You savor the flavor,

Your stained dress is crumpled and creased and you can’t quit crying

But you continue to lick up the mess

Your tongue is bleeding,

It lays limp in your mouth

There’s no more words that could make the molasses taste any more sweet

You spit blood into the sink and look in the mirror

These feelings were supposed to be sweet,

But now you’re just a mess

- molasses // (h.d.m.)

[b4cfec]

time goes on and on and on. some stupid things will never change. they’re like the bleach stains in my favorite black shirts, they wear with time and become a part of me.

a part of me would rather you quit this cycle. i couldn’t tell you if you think this is a game, because in order for it to be a game you’d have to care. you don’t. i don’t think you ever have, i was just dumb enough to love someone like you.

i might have to throw out the bleach stains, and maybe you too. i say it every day, but then I wear the shirt and i feel at home. you and your stupidity feels like home.

so i put the shirts back up, and the cycle starts again. the shirts will come out again, and this tension will come to a boiling point yet again.

but it’s all in my head, right? there is no game. you don’t care.

[b4cfec]

men are not poetry material, from my experience. most are not delicate and intentional. the men i know are rough around the edges like the rice paper I rip for my prints. they’re rugged and frustrating.

youre not worthy of poetry, either. you’re an alan wrench in a sea of tools. i don’t know about alan wrenches, or you for that matter.

but yet, the most beautiful words come to my tongue when i think of you. men aren’t my pen that glide across paper. they are the ink they fuels my most vulnerable thoughts.

you confuse me and conflict my heart. you’re an alan wrench, but you’re also the reason im up at 3AM after shots and shots of liquor to drown you out. guess who won? i’m writing again.

someone once told me that it will all go full circle for me. i don’t think this is a full circle, but you’re just another segment of it to get me there. it sucks. youre the only alan wrench i kind of gave a shit about.

oh, and this isn’t even a poem. there’s nothing poetic about pining for words that someone else should give me. however, maybe you were just poetic enough to convince me that I’m worth something.

this isn’t a poem, but if it was, it would be sad one. one full of longing for one specific stupid wrench when I chose a screwdriver to fix my issues, anyways.

this isn’t a poem, but if it was, it’d apply to me. it’d make my bones ache to the core and my heart squeeze, but it’s not. this is real life, and I really want an alan wrench right now.

- alan wrench and dumb, dumb men that I let win // 05/20/22 (h.d.m.)

[b4cfec]

my damn heart is in that damn state with those damn people that i love so damn much

it hurts, the desert has never felt dryer. my lungs are turning to dust with every breath I take. ohio air is so much more forgiving.

they gave me things to write about. they made me feel like maybe my life was worth writing about again.

thank you.

[b4cfec]

you get me accustomed to cigarettes every time I visit this state, sometimes I wish you would feel the same sort of comfort that smoking cigarettes with you does

the stale taste in my mouth reminds me of the night we shared together, yet I still crave it so desperately that i chain smoke

im silly, why have you been my friend? why did i lie? why did i say no? i wanted to say yes, i wanted to fuckin say yes

[b4cfec]

it won’t make you fall in love with me, but i wish it would

[b4cfec]

sometimes all you can do is breathe when the speed of your thoughts are so fast you feel sick

being sad has aged me, and year by year my bones splinter more and more painfully under this heavy grey void

my laughter sounds like white noise to my ears every time i try to laugh with my friends

my laughter sounds like white noise a lot, actually

loneliness has become who i am, i am the black shadow in all my friend’s minds, just a distant memory

i could keep going, but this poem has started to grow much like me

pointless

- high poems // pointless

[b4cfec]

I sit in the passenger seat of my own life. I no longer feel in control, and I’m not even sure if I’ve ever had control at all. 

Being a backseat driver is so frustrating when you know how, but have no power. My mind is an Impala that has long since run out of gas. 

I’m not sure who is in control, but they love to speed. Some days, it’s a pure blur. Sometimes they disconnect the breaks and run through stop signs as I yearn for some sort of stop. Some sort of end.

It’s like I’m the driver, but it’s not me. It’s a carbon copy made up of bad decisions and cigarette smoke. She craves the edge and gets off from putting me on it. 

Maybe one day she’ll fix the breaks and slow down. When she’s tired of driving, I will gladly take control. I will take her and me to a happier place. I will make sure she and I are finally safe.

- Breaks // Harley McKinney

[b4cfec]

being sick isn’t just about my head anymore, it’s about everything else but my head. my sick is my me now. 

it’s sewn into my clothes.

it’s tangled in my hair. 

it’s cooked into the food i eat. 

i wonder if it’s my fault. if it was my hand that sewed the sadness into my genes. if the sleepness nights that put my hair into knots. if its the types of meals i have. 

i wonder if i could just throw out all of my clothes and buy a new closet. if i could just shave my head the the base of all my problems. if i could eat vitamins to help my sickness. 

but it’s already melted my brain and it’s spreading. faster and faster, much like the acceleration of my once strong heart. it’s spilling onto my shirt, the floor, the pillow i try to sleep on. it’s in my food and soaking my hair, drying it matted. 

the thing is, i could buy a new closet. i could shave my head. i could eat better, but nothing is going to get the stains out of my head. 

it’ll happen again. i will find the needle in my hand. i will pull out my knots as clumps in the shower. i will eat to my demise. 

because the stains never ever come out, they follow me. they will find their way to my shirt, my hair, my food. they will continue to drown me. one day, they’ll win.

being sick was never about just my head. being sick was always about consuming my being until it’s more than just being sick. it’s about the sickness becoming me. 

about being sick // Harley McKinney

[b4cfec]

Art school is for glorified rich kids who want the "easy" way out. Like art is easy. I often find myself feeling out of place amongst so much art, because the people don't see it how I do. They're more concerned with the simplest way to thrive in adulthood. I scoff at that. Every once in a while, though, I see a soul being drawn to a piece, and I smile, because maybe art school hasn't lost its purpose for everyone. And it certainly won't for me. I've risked too much for art to let it down.

What Art School has Taught Me

[b4cfec]

You taught me what real love is. It is not petty arguments or excusing the grip marks on my arms. It is not disgusting insults disguised as jokes. Love is not black. No, you taught me that love is smaller than that. Love is simpler. You taught me that real love is a gentle hold on a soul, but not a death grip. You taught me love is perfectly sarcastic, in the best way possible. You taught me love is white: pure, lovely, bright. You taught me that we are love, and in it for that matter.

I love you // 09/24/18

[b4cfec]

Stoned poems #7 / love

Do you still love me?

You’ve been gone for two months.

Do you still love me?

You’ve heard my voice two times in that time.

Do you still love me?

You’ve gotten countless letters, all signed with a heart.

Even the ones where I wrote them crying.

Do you still love me?

He asked me to cheat on you for him.

I said no, but wanted so bad to feel some form of physical contact.

Do you still love me?

I got high and kissed girls in a game of truth or dare.

Their tongues slid into my mouth and it felt like rubber.

I want to take it back.

Do you still love me?

I start my new life in three days.

The temperature will rise with my anxiety.

I will slowly evaporate with the humidity.

Do you still love me?

I feel alone.

I want to die.

Do you still love me?

Where will you be in a year or two?

How different will you feel?

Will you still love me?

What about four?

When you’re halfway out the door,

Will you still love me?

Because despite this shitty poem,

I will still love you.

Despite the shitty things I’ve done

I will still love you.

Forever and always.

[b4cfec]

One day I went into work at 2:30 A.M. I was feeling higher than a kite, lost in my own sky of thoughts. Each of them swirling in my brain. I was put on dishes, one of my least favorite things. Dishes were the one thing I loathed doing.  I thought on how I got myself caught up at clocking in so early in the morning. Why did I do it? The answer- Because I love the people I work with.  And I thought of my love for other people, both ones who are easy and hard to love. And I looked at the dishes I was scrubbing. My hands were red and raw, they felt waterlogged.  I then realized; This was it, this was what love was. It was doing dishes for a restaurant at 2:30 A.M.- because love isn't always what we want to do. Love isn't always easy. Love can sometimes leave us burning, just as this dish water did to my hands. Love takes sacrifices we don't always want to make, but we make them for the things and people we love.  So I looked down at my hands, steam coming off of them. To me, they felt like new hands. Hands that were loving, kind, and thoughtful. I scrubbed harder after that, and I loved more.

Stoned poems #6 // Dishes

[b4cfec]

The realest thing I know, is that nothing is real. Not people, not feeling, not me. Nothing is real.  I have small glimpses of memories in faded color. It confuses me, because most everything I see is black and white. It is dull, monotone. And feelings feel like nothing. People talk about sparks, warmth, chills. My body feels empty most days, like a shell of what once was. People are pieces in the puzzle, all finding other pieces to fit with. I feel like maybe I was put in the wrong box entirely. I have never fit. The body is full of electricity and energy, but I feel drained, unplugged, disconnected. I feel like an engine in an old 94' Mustang that's seen it's last days. And I think the worst part of all this is, I see people live with color. I see people live with the blessing and curse of emotions. I see people fit with someone or something. I see people who feel like people. And when I look at me, I see nothing. Because nothing is real. Not even this poem.

Stoned Poems #5 // Real

[b4cfec]

Being a child is so pure, laying in vibrant green grass that tickles your arms. Staring at the blue sky complimented with soft clouds making imaginary shapes. 

Everything and anything gets barely any thought. A child’s mind is on one setting auto-pilot: dream style. Dreaming of the future. The hope. The possibilities. The happiness. 

The wind picks up and all of a sudden, time has flown. The green bright grass has turned into dingy cash. Laying down is an understatement. Rather, we now are held down by debt, by payments, by contracts. The clouds are harsh and grey, painting everything dull. 

The freedom of a child is now shackled to responsibility. Restrained by the real world. Adult bodies rip their child ones to shreds. Hope demolished, happiness watered down. Nothing left but an empty shell. A soul escaped to be in a softer place. 

For a place so free, children grow, inflated by the pressure of standards and guidelines, until they grow a hole and deflate. 

The cash gives their arms paper cuts and the clouds are meaningless.

No longer is there raw poetry and breathtaking paintings. There are now documents and diagrams to tell them what to do. 

No longer is the world a unique place. The world now wears a uniform, now has more serious problems.

No longer do we have children, but kids growing up and waking up too fast. Kids who don’t feel so free anymore.

(h.d.m.) 

[b4cfec]

I could never draw, but art school required portfolio drawings.

[b4cfec]

Life has a funny way of sneaking up on you. One day it hides in every corner of your life, quietly reminding you of its presence. It leaves notes and clues, but never reveals itself. Then one day, five years later When you're sitting in a bar with a half-empty drink in your hand, Life takes a seat on the stool nex you. It asks you how it's been, What has changed, How did you let it all go by so fast? And in that moment, You stare deep into that now-empty glass, realizing behind a hazy mind That everything is different. That everything is fucking different. Life didn't even have to raise its hand to hit you as hard as its existence did. No, life hit you right when you grew comfortable. Right when you thought you knew. And when you get ready to ask life every question possible, You look up and its gone. You go back to your drink, reduced down to nothing but droplets and a chewed up straw, When death takes a seat.

Stoned Poems #4 // Life and Death