issue 36: confessional

author of solo poet issue:

patrick michael murphy


Patrick Murphy is a 27 year old soon to be Creative writing student living in Ohio, USA. He has been published in 2 literary magazines and a few online publications.

When an Orchid Blooms

Dali creates me
on a canvas in his studio,
I was his budding flower
ready for nurture.

He gave my hands seeds
for writing with emotion.

In these hands I plant
hidden roots so they can see light
instead of being burried away.

there isn't much breathing
not even a little photosynthesis.

I may have died in the attic,
but at least closing the door
keeps the stench away.

your job called you in at 3am

my world shatters every time
you speak your morals into that mirror.

i never see you frown afterwards.

handcuffed to the bed
every-time i try to escape
i collapse like fragmented glass.

dissociating into the floor,
you fix your tie.
it's just another day.
as you smile contagiously.

I don’t want to feel these walls

I live down this corridor
where lights flicker every time,
I try to breathe.

At the end,
a blank door
where I hope to paint her
across the layers of wood.
trying to keep this place
from going under.

this light will give out
the bulb will fall to the ground
and shatter.

as I get close to the door
it feels warm and the knob burns my hand.
the other-side, unattainable.

It feels dark here
because I allow you to siphon out my heart.

even in somber times
color resides where
I hope her voice to lay,
but that goes to the jury
and the panel judges it
“not for now.”

Holding out my arm for a mediocre selfie.
Smiling for the camera:

Look beautiful again,
with that half-broken smile.



there's a cigarette, in the casket.
you always loved things
that killed you.

i tried to hold it,
to remember why your face still
stretched the same way.
after every forgotten smile,
yes, you frowned often.

right before grabbing that cig,
the casket closed.
i still can't even breathe the same toxins.

sometimes you just want to fade
into the light,
or in this case, the dark.
i guess that's why you wear black
at a funeral.

i bought another pack of Marlboros
but it's not the same without you.
the white sticks, they only kill me on the inside.
and you're not here to laugh
while coughing out your lungs.

it makes that fun and loving suicide,
just suicide.

Garfunkle didn’t ask me to write you an ode


they sung to Kathy that day
through windowed views with rain pouring
down London.

I kept your photograph like a mile long
car accident,
hanging gently down the window sil
as if I was a spider
and you were my web.


don't cry in your slumber.

I have to remind myself this every time
this song reminds me of you

you flutter across the room
like a stagnant moth
and I'm just some old dusty suit.


I write from the tips of my hands
because I forget what a heart is.
Don't leave your clothes hanging too delicately down this avenue
the moths make their rounds
and you're very close
to being thrown out at the next dump site.


you land your hands in my lap
I do not feel the love nor should I want lust
but still I find myself naked in your arms.

it's only small days at a time where we let
London filled streets into our hearts
simply because of Simon and Garfunkle's words.



I'm so glad your name isn't Kathy
because then,
I might actually have to write something good.


I end my words with a final smear
running down my back,
because I collected Go one too many times
and never received my cut.

I give you my hands
so you too can feel how rough they have become
from building that road I never finished.

the one that connects me and you.

her childhood


the taste of old Chardonnay drips from her tongue
as i rip her childhood away from her loins.

she likes it this way
as i'm nothing but the devil with a cane.
dampening herself, preparing for what is to come
she gets off on this and i know it.

wrapping her arms around my back
whispering in my ear
while i escalate the evening through a moan
and a quick jag.

i only loved you
because i knew you were fucked up

i too can christen the night with a hourglass frame
and hers is a bit shoddy,
however, i still plan on corkscrewing her body
and drinking her drenched alcohol taste
inside out.

just another summers day fling
as i understand this because her daddy issues
are still ringing my phone through the hook,
i respond to her.

as long as you love me
i'll stay.

that's all we could smother into the night
her past screams at my door,
i throw her out with the noises
i can't deal with little Jessika right now.

my heart

she fell
for the opiates
left under the tab.
if I could only scrape the foam
dripping from her lips,
I could let the guilt
out of these veins.

when you loved me


i was just some
fleeting exercise
where you came by
once a month
and hoped
you frequented
more often

you held my life
in the flicker of lit wiks
and candles that
burned through the house
i'm just another
wax filled escape.
you claimed it was
but all I felt was
another cliche'

candles burned
and fire smoked
our home
where we last stayed.
the aftershock still
these veins.

dear soulmate

i guess i'm writing to you
as a bottle sent out to sea.
since finding that one is pretty much

but if you're out there
i'm here inbetween the waves
waiting for the next current.

i relate to you
and who you are,
important word being who
simply because i'm not wanted either
i mean hell,
if you we were both wanted
i wouldn't be this bottle
and i would know your name.

never let the local fishermen
find me in these modern days
for they look at love in disdain.

i guess that brings me to understand
why there are so many plenty of fish.

everyone always says i was that needle
in a haystack, don't get pricked
you might attract the sharks.


i might be allergic to salt.

why I hate falling


i left a note to the world yesterday
-thank you for falling-

it collapsed right in-front of my feet
where i was ready to step over it
like some wailing puddle.

everyone always wants it to happen
where the world falls right in place
letting everything just go time in time
like a ringed up circular pattern
of just-right-incantations.

where the witch is your life
and your goals
and the curse.

is merely nothing but feeble ideas
that fall too, fall into the past
where nobody is left
to keep them up.

falling is detrimental
especially when its for someone else.

its like riding a bike for the first time,
you love it, its fun.  fast.
you swerve and turn around the roads
up and down hills
no second thinking,
just pure action.

then learning to use the break system
and falling afterwards.
it causes hesitation; worry
and opens a new pandora's box.

the one where you know you fell before
but life is still needed to be lived
and all you have to grab yourself above the line
is your two bare hands,
and a memory.

this is why i hate falling,
this is why i keep my head and hands seperate
from all things with a height.
so, if i ever do fall.

-at least getting back up won't hurt as bad-

end of issue 36. go back to issues page.

the poetry juicebox
an international poetry & art publication
the poetry juicebox