My star-crossed lover blooms in tulip reverie. She is an angel.
Tag: Love Poem
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Chocolate opal eyes set ablaze a fire that would smolder all in its fury. As my blood turned blue, an immortal angel sang a long-lost lullaby to comfort the souls of sunken men. Scarlet stained truth from petty white lies, how have I become everything I once denied?
Sawyer S.
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Don't think like that. I'll be gone by the morning. Smell my favorite sweater, forget what you always try to remember. "you're beautiful" are my clever words because the camera turns and you're inevitably hurt. You play with fire and expect to get burned. You always said I was thinking of her. Don't think like that. You said I was your addiction. Ghosts of valentines past whisper this same affliction. Quit me. Say it with conviction. In three months, I'll ask you how you're doing and you'll tell me that you're fine. Such a pretty, busy mind. We're all doing fine. Such a pretty, busy mind. My gentle mermaid.
Sawyer S.
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Hush. Let's play pretend.
Dig your claws into my neck.
Mark me, so I can remember what I should forget.
Bathe me in your scent.
Remind me, which part of you I should regret.
Hush. Let's play pretend.
Say it again.
"Stay."Sawyer S.
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It's how a finger tremors on the trigger;
I try to forget,
but I'll always remember.
Spellbound in Spring,
April became less of a curse.
A reverie of my first love:
roaming through foxgloves,
your olive skin shimmers
under the northwest sunlight.
Do you not feel
this dark dichotomy?
You were terrified by tomorrow
while I buried skeletons
of a petrified past.
You told me
to slow down
and breathe,
but you couldn't perceive
the ghosts in my periphery.
Twelve promises
sowed what we could
never reap,
two strangers shivered
in the same bed
we used to sleep.Sawyer S.
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As the smoke settled,
I could see fire;
crimson blazed in her irises.
I was but ember and ash
flashbacks of that same shade
twirling in my fingertips
as if I could see fallen spirits.Sawyer S.
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3:06am. Living in our cardboard boxes, we were always nomadic laughing and screaming as we ran into oncoming traffic. Her skin is narcotic. I am a fiend, her lips are morphine and I'm starting to get nauseous. The vertigo makes an open sign start to read closed. xoxo. Her fingers are frail from the years we refused to ever let go. Hallucinations in April of fallen angels and powdered snow and the only feeling was the bite of unspoken words in the back of my throat.
Sawyer S.
Addict Brain Poetry by Sawyer 