Red Wine

I’ve been forced to stay a while in this moment;
between the severed trees
and broken bones
in the summer blood moon’s smile.
Your fingers dance
in the boiling wine
from yesterday’s leftovers
and drip their poison
onto undeserving lips,
cracked and longing for relief
as I lap at the sweet remains.

Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, available on amazon!


We All Want What We Can’t Have

I want to break the binds,
and reject the embrace
I’m stuck in.
I want to sever the knots
in the stitches holding
the hurt inside my head.
I want to scream in the silence
and shatter the glass cage
keeping the numbing ice
pressed against my skin,
when all I need
is the warmth
of gentle fingertips
and the tenderness
of delicately spoken promises.

Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, available on amazon!

Your Poem

I have finally crawled out of the shadows
from under the bed to write you the poem.
You do not deserve my words.
You do not deserve my hurt.
But this,
this is your poem.
You are that stray Lego throwing yourself
on the carpet to cause me pain,
begging me to hurt myself,
so you did not have to take the blame.
You are a first draft.
And if I need to explain the horrors in that statement,
you are a writer
that doesn’t know the difference between ‘your’ and ‘you’re.’
You are the opposite of poetry.
You are a kindergarten art project.
Everybody wants to spare someone so small,
so they lie,
“Looks great honey.”
I’m dragging my way out of the crawl space,
putting myself in the open,
to write you a poem you won’t even read,
but will try to find the spark notes for.
You are the worst kind of person.
Making me feel stupid for my excitement,
making my feelings seem unjustified,
making my emotions yours.
You always wanted a poem about you,
so here it is.
You are everything I now know to stay away from.
You are my warning signs.

Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, available on amazon!

Mr. Lonely

Time is precious, and lonely knows it.
He is a greedy man, stealing moments
that should be spent filling your heart,
not your cup. He locks your mind in a
box, leaving the slideshow of memories
from a time you were not alone. He
leaves your aching heart to mend its
own, knowing your only company is
pain and the numbing substance of
your choosing.

Bloodless Murder

You did not love my talent. You were not
infatuated  with the way my mind worked,
bringing simple words together into
visionary pleasures.
You were attracted to my pain, not the poems,
giving me inspiration for my passion. You
fueled both addictions with the bloodless
murder your words committed, each of us
getting a fix through my emotions.


I wish I was a poison dart,

dark red blood floods when

my needle pierces your skin.

Imagine how sick I could

make you with the venom

running in your veins,

aiding the words meant

to sting you.

I want your ears to ring

at the filling of your blood

with a hurt that you deserved

so long ago. And I want

to be the last thing you see

before you say good-bye.


I’m a flaming ball of destruction;

A meteor hurtling towards earth,

searching for the center of a volcano

to burrow in the magma

and prepare for the explosion.

I’ll erupt in a furious fountain

of hurtful meanings and dishonorable opinions.

I’ll suffocate you slowly with smoke

created by carefully crafted phrases.

I’ll burn you slowly with lava of negativity

that used to boil quietly within me.

And once all is said and done;

When nothing’s left from blood and bone;

The ashes of my own demise

will cover you like a blanket

while the darkness kisses you to sleep.