writing – Page 9 – Kevin Trent Boswell

But You Can’t Say It

Sometimes, you know the real reason,
But you still can’t be the one to say it
You know well why they did the thing,
But it doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter at all

It must come from within, in its season
On some level, they know but won’t admit
The canary’s mouth closed; it will not sing
And Van Gogh’s ear refuses the call

By themselves, they’ll have to figure it out
No matter how obvious it may be to you
If you spell it all out, simple and plain
They’ll only reject it as a selfish ploy

Some fall deep into the well of doubt,
Won’t do what the heart most wants to do
They’ll forge on ahead, no matter the pain
Things that love, and are loved, destroy

Avert the eyes of the face in the mirror,
Admitting mistakes, the need to change,
They’ll rake themselves over hot coals
To keep everyone happy, all but the self

Unless it cuts deep, so they feel it clearer
Regardless of how unnecessarily strange
They’ll stick to expired, worn-out goals
Try not to look at the dreams on the shelf

You want so badly to explain it in detail
You know their truth even better than they
If they’d only admit it, they’d be satisfied
You want to scream, draw them a diagram

If you say it for them, your intentions fail
Suspicious of the things you do and say
Fear, manipulations; you must have lied
Some play the willing sacrificial lamb

It’s easier to suffer in miserable silence
Than admit what it is they want the most
Swallow feelings, cause no one displeasure
Love is expensive; it’s cheaper to scream

And their beautiful vision dies in violence
While they suffer daily as drudgery’s host
Twist in boredom’s unhappy full measure
Hold the anchor and let go of the dream

Zing, Pow

Nothing stings in quite the same way
As when you sting yourself
Forgetting the purpose of your boundaries
Casually placing them up on the shelf

You had them in hand for a good reason
And that good reason, you’ve still got
Once you remember why you need them
You’ll marvel at how you forgot

Area 25 by Trent Boswell — Available on iTunes, Spotify, Amazon Music, and more

Stare

I’d thought I’d seen
A kindness in her eyes

Upon reflection,
It was never there

I had projected love onto her,
Through my arduous staring;
It was not love she felt, but mirth

The kind of infantile glee
That a child feels upon
Breaking another child’s toy

The hateful smile born of one
Incapable of caring
For anyone or anything

There is a type of impish delight
That a recidivistic child will not surrender,
Even upon the pain of death

A wanton emotional sadism
Is the closest thing
That a void can ever hope to call
Fulfillment

Some spirits are only vacant motel rooms,
Unable to accept any guests,
Because they are filled to capacity
With fear

Staring incredulously at
Love’s credit card, and
Insisting upon fifth and sixth
Forms of identification

The only entertainment they enjoy
Is the sneering, bitter amusement
Of watching others
Fall upon their swords

For a vampire,
Every calorie is an empty calorie

Every kill is
Nothing but a sour reminder
Of the eternal need
For more killing

The music and poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell

Sweat

To strive with the burden
Of what the next hours might bring

To have wrestled daily
With the fear of losing life

To be saddled with the dread
That there may be
Some indeterminate sentence
Of interminable, inescapable life
That one is somehow
Condemned to endure

To flounder helplessly
In the drowning pool
That sits between
These two feverish fits of delirium

To have drunk the madman’s wine,
That laced broth which inspires
And conjures those horrid devils
Known as fear, hope,
And love

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Throat

I only want for you
To feel the warm waters wash over you
To drop down deep
into the well of experience

There’s no need to touch the depths;
It’s only down there
For those who truly desire the taste

Will you drink of the fountain,
Before you feel the insatiable thirst?

I don’t know when
The need will come

Or how you’ll work in
The solution,
But you can,
If you really want to,
Ride the whole wave down

Right down to the bottom,
Where the most
Pleasurable monster
Is waiting
To slurp your entire being
Right down its
Hungry throat

You may find it easier
To surrender to the creature
And its complete
Consumption of you
Than you had previously
Imagined

Foregone Inconclusive Executioner

Not the brightest of men,
I have walked into walls,
Chasing pleasant illusions,
Elusive pleasures

But even I,
Tiny bean brain that I may be,
Have enough sense
To stand back from the flames,
To stay clear of fires that
Rage beyond my control

Red, blustery, passionate,
These rueful waves of the sun
Crackle against the marbled rings
Of Kronos’ cold steel slave rings

The hard master yields nothing easily

I can summon enough sense
To feed myself when my bones
Become brittle with hunger

But I cannot make a meal
Out of the dust and dry reeds
Of another’s feverish pangs

There is no sustenance in another’s
Temporary fits of dissatisfied craving,
The ghoulish haunting caused by
Dwelling in the discontent of
A desiccated shell, which they are
Reluctant to abandon

When war swings its broadsword
At the throat of its enemy with full vigor

And the enemy,
Equally skilled in the art of slaughter,
Parries with a great sword
In just the knick of time,
At a perfect right angle,
There will inevitably come
A clanging sound most awful

Sparks will pour off steel weaponry
Sweat and cruel words will fly,
And the thirst of demons is slaked
With someone’s blood

The only question is, “Who’s blood?”

The answer is always the name of
Someone stupid enough
To stand too close to the fray

Such a someone does not
Keep their name very long

The surgical procedures
Of iron, hatred, and discontent
Removes the name like a tumor,
Placing it in a small wooden box and
Burying it in the yard, like a dead bird,
A former family pet who
Gave up the ghost

Except, that the bird was well-loved, and
Grieved for after its passing

The name of the fool who stands
Between plumes of martial fire
And the incontinence of the unhappy
Is quite unceremoniously
Peeled from the imbecile’s face and
Dropped in a shallow grave
With all the careful consideration
A person observes when tossing
A banana peel into the garbage

A miserly liver of life,
Who cherishes comfort above all else,
Will angrily slit the throat
Of one who offers them a cup of wine,
When the skinflint is busy
Swearing to the deliciousness
Of the sand in their parched throat

A plate of fresh fruit and venison
Is smacked hastily from the hand,
When offered to the prisoner
Who enthusiastically requests
A second helping of gravel and worms

No, it is far wiser to step back

Stay clear of one who is firmly committed
To the cause of consistency,
Merely for convenience’s sake

Let the dice, lightning bolts, and swords
Fall where they may;
So long as it is not upon your neck