Here where the only shadows cast

are those we create,

with only the weight of the world

upon our shoulders,

heaven still seems so far away,

lost against the backdrop

of yesterday’s dreams

as they’re held hostage

by tomorrow’s tragedies;

I’m reminded that

the war between the heart and soul

is nothing more than

the war between Heaven and Hell

and nothing less than

the rebellion of earth against sky,

and we’re too busy

making victims of each other

to find peace within ourselves.



He pulled skin and muscle aside, his fingers finding the bone beneath as they tore their way through flesh. Working his fingers between the tight spaces, tendons and cartilage popped and snapped as it released from the ribs, which in turn creaked and groaned before finally breaking. He could feel the bone bend and fracture, and each snap and crunch was satisfying to him. He clawed his way through them, the slow beating of the heart they protected taunting him, luring him ever deeper. This was his prize and his torment, and he was so very close. So very, very close….

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I wasn’t prepared
for what you took away
and how empty I would be
when what was left
was only what remained
of colliding and shattered dreams;
there is no salvation
in a greyclad sky
that’s hanging by a thread
threatening to reveal
a soul plagued by
a thousand sins in
a heart left hollow
by its own betrayal,
given over so willingly
to this darkness.

A Poet’s Curse

Words, my only friends–
never betraying but which I give them,
enemies of my own making;
curse the heart that gives them soul,
smother the lungs that give them voice,
whither the fingers that give them life.
Only silence is certainty.
Only silence is safe.

Winter In Me

There is winter in me,
a frost upon my soul
As my heart starts to freeze
I learn to embrace the cold
Quiet comes the dark,
silent in its descent
Smothered are the sparks
where life once held event
In this frozen decay
held empty and unforgiving
There is no hope of day
nor hope of ever living
Not for me, this summer,
nor the warmth of the sun
The lonely march of winter
will see my love done

No apologies for bad poetry. Sometimes you have to work through it.