A Poem, Four Stanzas

Photo by Matthew Ball on Unsplash

Yesterday the wind blew
in off the sand and seas, so
crisp — easy to breathe.

It kicked the dew up through
the sky, up above the
mountain— so high.

It stopped and knocked on
heaven’s gate, but it was late —
the sun had bid goodbye.

I'll stay… I'll wait. The static’s
returned to fill my mind —



Photo by Fons Heijnsbroek on Unsplash

My sole possession,
don't leave me again
I left my address in
your back pocket.

Cobain, Cobain, cough
up some blood.
I left my shoes again,
under a witch’s thumb.

I know you’ll go, when
the storm’s blowing,
It’d be a sin to stop you,
butter-fly sunshine.

There’s ink on the floor
There’s blood on the page
There’s bullets in your eyes
There’s smoke in a barrel of wine



A Poem

Photo by Artyom Korshunov on Unsplash

I haven’t cried in

twelve months, so ask me —

is it better to feel badly

or to feel nothing at all?

I'll tell you that pain

marks the face of

god, and there’s no floor

to this hole. So,

the pills make it go away, but

can’t make it worth staying,

and even with tears in them all,

our eyes are still beautiful.

I love you,



A Poem

Photo by Robert Bye on Unsplash

We used to read.

We used to write,

we used to breathe,

we used to measure

the light so carefully,

with our focused eyes,

no wayward glance to tear us

away from our moments.

Chop it, cut it, slice it up.

Don’t waste my time.

Entertain me.

I'll give it five seconds, then I'm gone.

What a hellish prison,

who ever made this decision

to live life in five second

increments? What a small cell

to serve our life sentence.



Michael Henderson

Michael Henderson

I like to write. Sometimes I want to, sometimes I need to, but I always like to. My goal is to reach 100 followers.