You Have Only Killed a Man

By the time the bullets pierce

My thorax

And I drown on my own blood

You have only killed a man

When the crowd draws close

Their mouths empty for words

Crying at the scene

You have only killed a man

When my death is pronounced

In somber tone

And the cleanup has begun

You have only killed a man

When the sound of my voice

Sits unrecognizable

Long since departed the ears of my loved ones

You have only killed a man

When my words are found

Scribbled on napkins and papers stuffed in notebooks

And new eyes see your shame

You have only killed a man

When you’re forgotten

Turned to dust

An empty page in the books of history

You have only killed a man

When the lovers smile

And share my words

That this world is beautiful and mean

Wondering about my life

The drink, the inamorata

Revolutions lead and followed

The accounts left for generations

To follow in my unlikely path

My name on their future tongues

Jubilant in my grave

You have only killed a man

Stephen M Crow 2019



Sometimes when I’m sitting with my wife and\or the kids, I’ll notice that hours can go by while we all stare at our individual phones and only communicate to show each other something we found on Facebook or Snapchat. I miss sitting and talking with my parents and friends. It scares me how much we have isolated ourselves, even from our loved ones. It’s even scarier how easily it happened, and how innocuous it all seemed.

The Murderer Inside

I’m drowning in your love
My resistance has grown thin
I’m sinking down below
Below this ocean made of sin

I’m searching for some wings
To catch a breeze lift off and fly
To look down at the world from the perspective
Of a teardrop in your eye

The cynic in me knows
That nothing good can come from this
The numbers don’t add up
And there’s a knife behind the bliss

The poet in me says
That tragedy can write a song
But the murderer inside knows that blood
is the only way to right this wrong.

-Stephen M Crow

Without You, My Dear

I'm beginning to think
that I'm unlovable.
I carry all of the traits
of wanting to be loved.

I love.


I invite these hearts...

based upon things like

my blind ideals.

I'll never profess 
to be a perfect man.
I'm as shitty as the bum
eyeing your final drink.
But I care

in the way the lion
cares for the antelope.

Without you, 
my dear, 

I'm nothing.

-Stephen M Crow

The Very Breeze

The very breeze
that makes the grass
appear as waves
that kiss the shore,

and gently stirs
through branch and limb
to make the leaves
dance without care,

can move a man
to change his heart
to love, where there
was hate before.

In whispers blown
through nations ears,
we are but one
one world we share.

The Most Amazing Woman in the World (For a While)


Sleeps with her books,

her cat,

her rhetoric.

Imaginary men steal

one at a time into her bedroom.

Perfect men

who stay lodged in her memory

until well after she’s awakened.


She’s cool,

smokes and flirts


from the corners of her mouth,

suggesting she’s more

of a woman than a child.


We met over a plate of cocaine

before Christmas

and swore we’d steal away

to Mexico and marry

in the spring,


to the right bands

and speaking philosophies…


nude on a couch.

Pressed together

like change in my pocket.

Our secret incorporation intact,

coffee and scotch whisky

made her

the most amazing woman

in the world

for a while.


Now she sleeps with her books,

her cat,

her rhetoric,

and an unending train

of imaginary men,

none of whom

are me.





your fingernails are long

and remind me of amorous play

gone wrong with the curve

of your hips.

Those were the nights

I chose to remember

when I choose to remember

those times.

I could write songs about

the ways we made love


the evil curve of your

back while you cried

real tears

through an orgasm

as the blood rouged

your sex

and made trouble for

the hotel maid.

I think now

of other lovers

and the odd fit

of their bodies

to mine.