Dark melodies, haunting,
caress lost souls
within a melancholy vacuum.
Strength and fragility combine
with minor harmony
to ease minds less troubled.
This gift of yourself,
writhing, dark longing,
as you ache for decay.

Beauty all but forgotten 
by the pens that brought your demise
as they pick at your bones
re-running self destruction
in front page spectaculars.

Lone death is not your legacy,
a symptom of the silence you craved,
now unending.
Seattle's lights dimmed in your wake
it's brightest flame guttered,
reviled in tabloid taunts and tales of lonely rooms.

Still you walk in the halls of the jaded,
weaving life between scars 
a saviour to the unsaved,
our hearts desires brandished
within passions voice, eternal.

*"My gift of self is *****, my privacy is raked
And yet I find, yet I find repeating in my head,
If I can't be my own, I'd feel better dead"

His Down's Syndrome makes
His age a tough guess, I'll
Say eight to ten.

Wide eyes on machines,
Ice cream dripping on the
Pavement outside the

Construction site.
I wanna work like this when
I grow up, he says in

Young enthusiasm to a mother
Whose eyes well up with
Gratitude when I approach

And kneel down in front of
Him. So you want a job,
Buddy? I ask him with a

Wink. He suddenly remembers
His ice cream and bites into
It shyly. Nods, glancing at the

Tools in my belt, the scratches
On my arms, the brick wall
I've been attacking with a

Wacker jackhammer. Nods
Again. Well, I'll see you in a
Few years, I say with another

Wink, this time to his mother,
Who'd look her young age if
Her eyes weren't as tired,

But you can start with this
And get some practice. I hand
Him my Stanley Fat Max

Hammer. His ice cream
Hits the ground as he
Recieves it with both hands,

Looking to his mother for
Confirmation that it's ok.
Oh, it is. She mouths a

Thank you SO much...
They walk away, his chatter
High pitched and fading

Around the corner. And I
Head over to the foreman to
Report that I lost my hammer.

Don't ever employ me.
I can work a good game, but
I'm too soft around little heroes.

I'll often go on Facebook
to while away the time
my friends are there,
we have a laugh
share music, pics and "smiles"

but lately things are changing
there's trouble in the air
with ugly hearted bigots
posting hatred everywhere.

I will not hate my fellow man
how ever hard they try
I really couldn't give a ****
if the blushing bride's a guy!

I will not fear a Muslim,
nor any other creed
they're not all bad, they're not all good
They've done nothing to me

So a word to all you fascists
please take your evil deeds
and stick them where the sun don't shine
not on my newsfeed!

This morning's glory warms my heart,
words carried in on strangers' tides
have brought about an easy smile
and planted seed in barren mind. 

These words they linger oft unseen
between the love and broken things
this poet's world a rushing tide,
a surge of flight to tarnished wings.

I'll light another cigarette 
for no-ones keeping score
and pray that ink will always bleed
the words of Nevermore.

What is it with society
it can't leave girls alone
to be the way they want to be
they have to **** and moan...

"Now this one she's too skinny
with a blatant lack of ***
legs stolen from flamingos
and arms like two matchsticks.."

"Now this one's far too chubby
observe her thunder thighs
see her wobble as she's walking
it's clear who ate all the pies.."

"Now see the tattooed freakshow
flesh tunnels, garb of black
in burly boots and trenchcoat
she must be taking crack.."

"and what of lil Miss sunkissed
with her streaky perma-tan
who dresses like a two bit *****
but never keeps her man.."

A war on flaws is raging
as media fuels the flame
mixed with the tongues of gossips
it gets stronger everyday
we're taught to judge a person
by looks and shape alone
regardless of their inner selves
their talents, dreams and goals
It really is a worry,
to watch our young girls grow
bowed under weight and pressure
with self esteem so low.

So tell them that they're beautiful
it's not too much to ask
and please be sure to tell them
that the media's an ***!

You sit at your screen
fingertips flying in the face of decency
like a spigot attached to a vat of arsenic
dripping your poison, slowly, surely into the ears of the unthinking.

You justify the burnt skin, the orphans, the unending torture as deserved.

Deserved?

How can it be so?

Go tell the orphan, scarred and screaming that her fate was deserved.

Go stand beside mass graves and thumb your nose at the deserving corpses, stained by the blood of ages.

Where is your heart? 
does it choke and sputter,
buried beneath your all encompassing loathing?

You call me stupid, maybe so,
my views naive, my compassion wasted
yet my heart beats proudly, swells with love 
while my tired eyes drown at the unfolding horror.

War is not a spectator sport,
it is not justifiable, nor deserved.

Call me stupid if you will, ridiculous if you must
call me any number of names in your attack on my spirit
I will not care, I will not bend or bow.
Your hatred will be your undoing.
Not mine

A ragged, one eyed bear held dearly by a child.
A solitary leaf blown around on the summer breeze.
The smell of old books with turned corners.
The sapling struggling for light beneath the mighty oak.
The bounty discarded by the crabapple tree.
An ill advised mullet.
The opening chords of Born To Run
Kurt Cobains smile.

All these things bring you to me.

The break is long over.
I should be back in that

Hole, jackhammering my
Way around that broken

Pipe. But this butterfly
Landed upon the dust

And band-aids on my hand,
And neither of us

Wants to let
Go.