Kevin Trent Boswell

Glow-Up

I never felt the need
To pretend
That everything was okay

It’s normal to hurt and bleed
When things end
And people go away

I never felt the need to be cruel
To act like it didn’t matter to me
As if I was unfazed, fine, even great

It takes a special kind of fool
To show off, hoping they’ll see,
And giving in to a petulant hate

Back in the Day

Back in the old days,
If a lady thought she fancied you,
She’d drop her handkerchief;
You were looking, and she knew

This signaled to a gentleman
“Sir, do come and flirt with me”
In returning it, his charm
(Or lack thereof) she could see

Supposedly, now a quick smile
Does what the hanky used to
But modern men know better,
There is no acceptable thing to do

One woman says, “Here is good,
“But never, ever, over there!”
But the next one will say the opposite;
So, men guess in despair

If you approach because she smiled,
She’ll say, “I was just being polite”
But suddenly, she’s uncomfortable,
And she’ll say, “That’s not right!”

If you cannot read her mind,
Then your head is made of rock
And unless you’re rich and famous,
You’ll be slandered on TikTok

But if you don’t take the risk,
Then she’ll feel like you rejected her
She’ll tell her friends you’re a coward
When you thought you respected her

A woman thinks she’s flirting
If she blushes, smiles, and fidgets
But if you want him to make a move,
Drop a hanky or your digits

weekend

“time to pretend that we’re so cool
“as if we’d earned it, and we deserve more
“time to act like a selfish fool
“lose track of the count, settle the score”

you can have all that; you guys go ahead
it’s a hard no; I’m not into it, pass
shallow people make me wish I was dead
I’d rather eat a bowl of broken glass

standard operating procedure

standard operating procedure
or the abbreviation S.O.P. for short

throw it out the fucking window,
as far as any attempt to navigate
the world, as it is, right now, today

nothing works the way it used to
and none of the old rules apply

reliability is no longer a feature
most people treat each other as sport

the only thing you can really know
is that for us, it’s probably too late
but there’s no one who can definitely say

it’s no longer just about what you do
it’s not only a matter of how hard you try

it’s easy to find a lovely creature
the attractive-on-the-outside sort

but when the inside parts begin to show
you might turn off or begin to hate
and lose your previous desire to play

if their nature is less-than-true
if they’re the type that’s prone to lie

you don’t need a guru or preacher
nor a bunker, a base, or a blanket fort

only a love to make your heart glow,
to change your mind about your fate
and honest, kind words to say

you need “do unto others, as to you”
and together, you can happily die

if you could

if you ceased all wandering,
and instead, you stayed put

if you found something strong
that nailed you, daily, in place

if that something was so heavy,
you felt chained down by joy

if you experienced the weight of it
like floating on air

if you had less choices,
and yet, felt more free

if you were no more a princess,
but a subject, instead

if you straddled the worlds
between saint and sinner

if guided through this, nightly,
by your psychopomp priest

if you lost all freedom
and served a steel master

if you found that, through service,
you discovered true self

if you begged for each thing
and enjoyed all your pleading

if your station was lowered,
but you were held above all others

if you could curl up by a throne,
at the feet of a king

if rebellion was never the answer
or an option

if all else ceased to matter
or exist

if bound by such a contract,
an ironclad arrangement

if you could, but to do so,
you’d need to humbly ask

if you could, then you’ll pose
this question to yourself

if the answer is yes (and it is),
to the other

and gone, all sense

and questioning the extent
of my vision

and being snared by something simple
as a voice

and to inquire, internally,
of one’s taste

and second-guessing
that redolent fragrance

and to sit in the wonder
of one’s touch

and to find lost processes
in a quandary

and decline into
the distrust of my agency

beneath the strange tutelage of a whisper

and to revel in the ecstasy
of dreams

and to torture the soul
with a longing

and all at once,
in a flash,
gone the senses

and it’s all over
for a mad wanting
of the wanted