you packed a suitcase

slipped a flower in your hair

and turned to say ‘good bye’

without so much as a tear in your eye.


but I must’ve been

the most heartbroken man

you had ever seen.


I guess it was in that moment

when you, too, realized

that you didn’t have to be

so goddamn mean.



Devlin @ Eyes+Words


Well, it has been roughly 2 years or so since I had any of my work [poems] published on another Online Journal. . .So I humbly thank Jacob @ Eyes+Words for accepting one of my poems.


And for the little Followers I have, I hope you enjoy “Lightening”!


Thank You, Jacob!



A Beautiful Poem


I watched the sun

as it rose from darkness

and slowly crept upon your sleeping face

like a stalking lover

inhibiting you in places

only a woman could phantom [on a man];


I cringed with envy

as I watched that same stalking lover

take flight over your chiseled body

while the vast rays of its translucence

pierced your flesh and ravaged your orifices ~

the same orifices my body

sweated upon

licked upon

kissed upon

came upon;


how I ached to strangle that stalking lover

with every strength of my hands

with every beat of my heart;


I took a step forward

with the intention

of abruptly pulling down the blinds

but the sun suddenly caught

the naked of my glory

into it’s stalking wrath;


I bit back my anger then froze

when my lover awoke

his eyes falling upon me

with a grin that echoed for miles:


‘goddamn, you’re beautiful,’


he flushed

I blushed


‘beautiful. . .like a poem.’



i, Poetry

i, Woman pic 3

he took me to the point

of no return,

tore open my skirt,

ripped the panties

from my bodice

& dragged me

into the river deep

asking through a sensual man’s whir ~


                                         ‘how deep is your poetry?’


as spools of sodden moist

violated every center of my sanity

gripping the depth of my insanity,

utopia & euphoria


in the holiest temple of my doom;

& there

did I occur to me

that poetry is in the eye

of the beholder


when I saw my legs

dangling over his bare shoulders;

but it was

in the harden thrusts

of his verses,

the orgasmic taunt

in his stanzas

had I realized the depth

of my own poetry

didn’t matter ~








for I was Poetry

in itself




of whisky




a sunless day


a cloudy sky…

heart is a

cardboard box;


forgotten rhythm(s)

& impotent stroke(s)

numb these thoughts

of thoughtlessness;


versus are shiftless

stanzas wander

prose(s) indisposed ~

drunk is the poet


with a leadless pen in hand

& a tattered notebook

with pages of dirty white


against the wind…



in quoted brackets

I am read:


[Please Insert Poem Here]