Her Beelzebub


Her mother sensed the evil

When she found black stains on white sheets.

Torn fabric and charred wicker

Sent infant cries from the cradle.

A string of coos hushed the child,

But unchecked went streaks of red in brown irises.


A depraved soul not yet sixteen

Sat atop frozen roof tiles,

As her mother lamented friends

Sent to push her over the edge.

Burning lungs reflected a life turned left,

And a shooting star sprinkled ash on coarse skin.


She turned twenty-four in a black alley

With blood on her hands.

Jagged metal pierced skin

Before disappearing into cold flesh.

Her mother’s sobs rang in her memory

When the steaming vent released a cackle.


Her death fell behind metal bars,

Fluorescent lights turning pale skin gray.

Red roses turned black

On a shattered gravestone.

Tears dripped from her mother’s cheeks,

For she knew the path below the grave,


And Beelzebub welcomed his child to hell

As she clawed her skin raw.

– kh.

© February 2017 | Placer County, California

Miss America


Darling, you were a beauty.

Child of Venus, daughter of desire;

Men fought and slaughtered for your hand.

Darling, you were a hero.

Defiant infant, weather-worn warrior;

Influence lifted you above the clouds.

Worshiped, adored, pursued–a billion dreams you fulfilled.

Darling, what did you do?

One hundred times two,

Broken vows, homeless nights,

Whiskey bottles, legal battles,

Cigarettes and white powder in bathrooms.

Blood on your hands, filth on your soul,

Count to forty-four, your time is up.

Darling, if only you could save yourself.

Beautiful woman turned broken glass,

Marilyn Monroe reincarnate,

Descending from grace, burning as you fall.

– k.h.

© February 2017 | Placer County, California


They told you the pleasure was worth the pain.

They said it was worth the bumps and bruises,

To feel the buzz of adrenaline in your limbs.

They said to ignore the fear and regret,

The lingering hatred for actions unfolded,

And bask in the momentarily searing bliss.

So you listened,

And you fell.

A thousand miles down from the clouds,

Past shouts and cries of those you love,

Crashing into the ground full force.

And you laid there,

Broken and in agony,

Waiting for the vultures to circle.

And you began to wonder,

If maybe,

Just maybe,

They were wrong.


My dear, you learned the hard way.

The pleasure is never worth the pain.

– kh.

© September 2015 | Placer County, California


It roared,

She hid.

It struck down to earth,

He lived.

It cracked,

She cried.

It lit up the sky,

He died.

It screamed,

They scattered.

It tore them apart,

They shattered.

– kh.

© June 2015 | Placer County, California

Broken Butterfly

She was a butterfly.

Beautiful beyond words.


Until she broke her wing.

Her beauty was marred,

A once pretty thing, crippled.

She would never fly again.

What was she without her wings?

A waste of beauty cast aside to wither away.

Her misery dragged her by the throat,

A silver knife sent her other wing falling to the floor,

For what is a butterfly with only one wing?

Better to destroy the remains,

Than live with the reminder.

A shattered creature she became,

Crawling across the floor,

Unable to pick herself up,

And she began to fade away.

Until He found her.

She tried to hide,

For who could stand such an ugly creature?

In shame she turned her back,

Revealing the scars of her wings.

He kept His distance at first,

Calling to her softly.

She covered her ears.

What is a butterfly without her wings?

He should know.

What is a butterfly without her wings?

Why is He still calling?

What is a butterfly without her wings?

Tears cold as ice dripped down her cheeks.

Gentle arms lifted her off the ground,

And took her away.

He brought her back home,

Cleaned her cuts,

Healed her bruises,

Masked her scars,

And fashioned for her a new pair of wings.

Beautiful, golden wings

Shining bright as the sun.

For what is a butterfly without her wings?

A thing to be loved.

– kh.

© February 2015 | Sacramento, California