“A Bowl Of Cherry Pits”

I painted you a cherry tree on an old white stretched out t-shirt.

I chose the colors from your personal pallet.

In the midst of my masterpiece, I plucked the fresh drupes from the still wet oil on the canvas and placed them into a plastic bowl.

I know they are your favorite.

Afterwards I made sure my brush strokes portrayed the tree strong & sturdy.

If to chop it down, it’s rings of life would be suitable for your finger.

I splattered blue over the leaves to insure rain will keep it healthy to blossom again.

The thing about oil, is that it doesn’t mix well with water and when it dries, the colors change.

The green turned a brownish yellow and the paint began to separate.

The grass shifted and the tree’s roots began to push through the cracked dry paint.

The exposed roots proved to be twisted.

As hard as I tried to paint over these roots, the paint would dry and crack again.

How could something so sweet have such ugly roots.

And then I realized, these roots are the source that feeds the tree and allows the cherries to flourish.

So I left them naked.

I couldn’t ignore what is not seen and only focus on the product of its labors.

I decided the painting was finished.

The tree in all of it’s entirety.

The sweet fleshy fruit and the undesirable roots in which they came from.

As a whole, what was once buried below the surface is now above ground, yet it still produces such a delicious pitted treat.

Maybe I’ll just paint with water colors next time.

-Joshua Tool 04/28/17

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“A Bone To Pick, A Word To Memorize”

I sharpened my teeth on the steel of your tongue.

As the sparks flew, they grazed and burned our cheeks, yet I still felt truly numb.

A firework show on forgotten faces.

How could your words still taste so cold in the heat of these metal embers scorching our skin.

I know that you despise my burning belly, but my heart is warmer than this collide of bone and metal.

I sharpened my tongue on the steel bars of this jail cell I have found myself in.

Words fell into my mattress as I stared at the wall and picked at the chipping paint.

Carving invisible promises into the solitude of my memories.

That is that my belly burns no longer.

My heart burns twice as hot and my teeth are softening from grinding them down through the nightmares I walk through every night without you.

I don’t need my moon to shine. I need my sun to kiss my back the way you had nightly before I started sharpening my tongue and teeth.

I don’t want to build weapons out of my bones, I want to make love with my skin and words.

I want to be the one that makes your moon shine and to kiss your freckles the way your sun has.

I care nothing for the battle nor the war.

I care only for the repair of skin, hearts, teeth and tongues.

If somehow we could exchange lukewarm words and exist in the comfort of our repaired persons.

I would meet you, white flag waving, and kiss all the sharp parts of you until we no longer need weapons to sleep.

To love.

To Be.

One.

-Joshua Tool 04/27/17

“My Frozen Lake”

I had cold sweats in a fetal position dream of our perennial passion:

As each bead burst and absorbed into my shirt, a piece of potential grew.

I was sweating out the bad parts of me for the good parts of you…

In my dream we chapped our faces in the arctic winter, walking into the wind.

We held hands through barriers of cloth that promised warmer sin.

Take my blood, take my heart and I will walk with you again.

I shook in the night for it not a fair fight, a climate comprimising your skin.

In the end of my dream, I woke in a scream and stared at the ceiling of blue.

I was sleeping outside as I swallowed my pride, to rest from the absence of you.

I will sweat every night, I will fight the good fight, for our beads and our love will be true.

|You are my frozen lake|

Though cracked in places, I will never ever fall through.

-Joshua Tool 04/22/17

“Someone Fell And The World Turned”

I’ll be your poet and painter before I’m your fuck boi. Don’t get it twisted, with a silver tongue and cheek I will paint you with my head under water. You will be something that makes music have point. Yet not too bury my head too deep in the sand, I can live in solitude with your memory in ink. An octopus couldn’t fight the quills I carry. I have never danced blindly the way that you saw sonnets in the dark. Edgar would value your crazed ways. I can’t help but dream in black holes that we have survived. Neil Degrasse Tyson can’t even explain your touch that supersedes galaxies. I have your record on and its skipping. I have no choice but to bury my head in forgetful sand and fascinate about the little things that made the universe worthwhile. You are forever collywobbles, no matter what fuck boi hurt you. I am sorry I did. I don’t want to be a guise of uncomplimentary tone. I am your poet. Your painter. Your confidant. Your ink. Your pleasure and inevitable pain. I paint myself a master in a monsters skin. I am nothing if I can’t spare you my demons. I am sorry I bleed dark on the page. Can I borrow a quill to paint a new shade and form songs inside your existence.

-Joshua Tool 04/17/17