Even Icarus knew this:
To kiss the sky was not enough
With lips like feathered wings
Smeared with wax
I will fly and fall
Over and over
Just to hover across
Your mouth like the sun

He played that guitar
like cupid on a broken heart
or a harmony upon a harp.

The sad instrument wept
his tears unto the dry crowd
and they sighed in saturation.

And once he was drained
of everything he kept contained
they lit their lighters, begging for more.

Alas, he was alive no longer,
and had nothing but great nothings
left to give them.

So they took the silence,
and gave it back to him.

Draped,
in a long sleeve
shirt,
to cover the evidence


And painting an expression
of contentful bliss

But it is simply an illusion
for the sake of others


Denial the easiest act to employ



Crimson tears stream down
and pool on the floor

A slight shudder
from the sting of the razor’s kiss


Momentary reprieve
from the turbulance in her mind

This pain her only time of joy



But the outside world only sees
the smile on her face


A subtle attempt to make it seem
like nothing’s amiss

Her false expression
of happiness forever a burden to her

Because no one wants a broken toy…

Sipping midnight whiskey behind the typer,
staring at a blank spot on the wall,
fingers frozen to the keyboard in mid-sentence,
another wave of anguish
floods the mind.

The spot on the wall is a sounding board
to rail against enemies
and debate ideas,
and howl the cries of a madman
who will forever ponder
damaged souls left
in his wake.

Sins committed once belonged to others.
Then I learned how to inflict pain
in my own style.
Now, regrets languish
in *****-soaked reflections.
They stir quiet torment,
a just retribution
for honest men

Everybody Likes
             A
                 Short Poem
             That
                    LOOKS
Like this.
                 So Artsy
You can't resist:
                           To make my poem trend
by pressing the heart <3 button
                                                THE END.
                                                #marketing

The mirror looking back at her
screams compliments over the loud music
coming from the stereo behind.
With artfully smudged eyeliner,
she slips into the little black dress
purchased from the cheap lingerie shop
down the street from her apartment complex.
Six inches above the concrete sidewalk
clicking with every step,
a lit cigarette dangling at her teeth,
she walks proudly to the ball
twenty minutes past midnight.

The morning after;
spiked hot coffee in hand
to cure mistakes of the previous night
and a knock on the door
greets a worsening headache.
The door opens to a well dressed man
and a tiny glass slipper
atop a diamond-studded throne.
He holds the delicate shoe to her foot,
toe nails painted black,
and patiently waits for a response.

“Those aren’t my red stilettos.”