The Scrap Book

The Scrap Book

splinters of color,

Saran wrapped in a needed ache,

soaked in the warmest of orange,

remaining shackled firmly,

to my secret stacks of scattered imprints,

its impact paper clipped to the breeze in my heart,

carrying such gentle tracings from the times when time skipped time,

their faces wisp like torn flags on silent ships,

as fire flies once here then gone,

leaving trails in some realistic fashion,

knowing fondly that their taste would never sail into the shadows,

on occasion tucking themselves into the shade,

the fervor of these ghosts are able to duck age,

kidnapped by the van of sub consciousness,

hidden away for safety,

as not to be tainted from the current daily routine which too ordinarily,

adds up to nothing worth counting,

a few in particular haunt hard,

a claustrophobic halo bronzed in guilt,

daggered deep,

innocence gutted like a sharp shovel slammed into a fat girl’s belly

and no matter how unlikely it is to change the past,

it doesn’t keep me from imagining how I could,

the wings on some day dreams don’t fly straight,

they don’t relinquish their presence from my rear view mirror,


like a cracked pillar leaning on a lie,

a scar in the place of a smile,

so I pretend she pictures me with a cross on my back,

dragging her silhouette behind me like a cape after battle,

chasing an outcome of a shared Welcome Matt


By: Bryan Matthew Boutwell /