Seven, eight and nine.
I always thought the burden was mine.
She told me her name,
yet cried all the same.
Ten, eleven and twelve.
I can still hear sleigh bells
near to where the snow fell.
Sawyer S.
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I Choose Life Always; handcarved by Dremel tool. -Sawyer S. I made this as I began my journey through grief. I can only hope the man I have become is nearly congurent to the values they once held themselves. Each name has and will remain a token of my eternal gratitude. These memories discipline the spirit of my person. For that, I love you all. I miss you dearly.
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“A Mug for You, Too.” By Sawyer S. “Feral Thought” is Addict Brain Poetry’s former pen name.
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My dear Sapphire Sophia,
with reservoir irises that have abandoned Autumn.
You cannot forgive what has already been forgotten.
Thorns blossom from the asphalt.
My dear Sapphire,
it was never our fault.
Sawyer S.
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Upon barren soil,
a single tulip blossoms;
resuscitation.
Sawyer S.
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What does this mean, to exist?
Well, his fangs are plastic.
You may be prey but,
pray and pay but they may still say
that his lungs accumulate so much tar
that when he speaks, he may actually bark.
When they whisper
he may only muster a bark.
After all, his fangs are sharp.
They will always confuse predator and prey.
What will they see,
what will you
today?
Sawyer S.
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I perfected the practice of living in blackness This smile of plastic They ask why I'm distracted and obsessed with sadness but I hold my tongue. They can't fathom an emptiness of the gut or the only joy being a bite of tobacco in the lungs. Spring has Sprung, You Rest in Peace. whilst we puddle into pieces puzzled by all of the missing pieces. How could you leave us? Sawyer S.
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If I ever have the chance of change,
I shall don this hood
and not puddle from rain.
Sawyer S.
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a novel: insecurity, departed
prologue: an angel turned harlot with chapters splattered in scarlet
his carcass is tarnished, heartless
he felt like a fallacy, a malady rotting much like the spoiled apple she gave him that brisk December day.
he gave it to every angel since though rumor slanders him as a thorned prince
today there is much to his garden. Autumn has shared her harvest.
and if all remains honest, these pages shall not be tainted in scarlet
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a timid facade. there was something insidious about this woman. for the greater portion of this Saturday i watched her, teetering the balance between admiration and bewilderment. she possessed exquisite taste. jealousy corrupted my eyes, for a red cocktail dress that worshiped her every curve had tormented my intention of a tame Saturday. my gums began to thirst for skin. my hand began to choke the glass of bourbon i had been nursing. i thieved one last gaze of her impeccable figure. i left. forever enamored by the shiver of my Mistress whom i recall as Winter.
Addict Brain Poetry by Sawyer 