I want a spoon, sturdy enough to scoop your eyeball out of its socket. Maybe you would see opportunity rotting. I want a knife, sharp enough to slice off your ear. Maybe you would hear the love you forsake. I want a fork, long enough to stab in between your ribs and perforate one lung. Maybe you would feel breathless and face your pain. I want a surgeon, and I want a chef- to remove your liver, serve you on a porcelain plate. Maybe you would taste how foul you have become. - I don't want to bury you too.
Tag: poet
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Soot stained my white shoes.
We walked an avenue of melancholia together.
When your feet became bruised
I waited by your side
as God's anguish showered
from a Heaven that was too pretty
for either of us to belong
We nurtured the ugliest parts of ourselves
finding amnesty in mutual rejection.
Eventually,
you found comfort in conformity
disposed that which made you an individual.
I discovered the meaning of "disgust".
Or should have I been proud
that you became normal.
Envy is just as disgusting
as you are. -
My darling,
teases my friends
with her silhouette
until my hands are frozen
pressed against her neck.
Her kiss is the waning silence
of a quiet mind,
sundering self
in the undertow of metaxis:
lust and hate.
She teases my friends,
only hours later
they soon forget;
ephemeral.
Her tongue
is the reaper
of my sentience,
floundering in a state
of detachment.
I have binged on what
my obsessions have borne,
an escape from banality
my autonomy abandoned
to Misery, my mistress.
My darling,
teases my friends
with her silhouette,
until my hands are frozen
pressed against her neck. -
I'll set you free, a distant memory like the smoke ribbons dissipating into the stale air. You should escape into the nothingness of my mind. I've set you free, my ineffable to where I begin and you end, so I may find love. - I've burrowed my fear in her laughter and forgiving smile. Her voice undresses my insecurity. I no longer want to feel different, just to feel her only. An insatiable appetite for velvet lips I have tasted but once. Dead butterflies flutter again. Her name dances through my subconscious. It sobers my loneliness, and reminds me I have a home somewhere. - Thank you, my ineffable. Destruction and fate are quite similar. Farewell, Sawyer
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Lingering phantoms Dancing with these old vices The boy I was died
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keep me warm at night, ghosts of forgotten lovers. graveyard valentine.
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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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seventeen text messages.
left on read.
you still haven't texted me back.
i nestle my pseudo lover.
i wrap my hands around her neck.
a bottle of Honey Jack.
something, anything to shade
this gray into black.
i've always been chasing
that which you lack.
i wonder who you're with,
and where you are.
these privileged thoughts
are for the naive.
i chew five xanax
for my nightly reprieve.
i hear five knocks at my door.
"sawyer, it's me!"
the onset of vertigo.
my feet betray reason
as i walk to the front door.
both hands press
against the wooden door.
"you can't keep doing this to me"
my words slur in my pathetic state.
"let me in already, i want you right now"
and just as a puppet dances with string,
i unlock my door and invite you inside.
you're wearing a black,
faded denim miniskirt.
torn fishnets.
you reek of liquor
and cheap cigarettes.
"have you been using again, sawyer?"
"you already know the answer. why are you here?"
"you're my boyfriend, duh!"
"love isn't supposed to feel like this."
"what is love supposed to feel like then?"
"i feel like i'm dying"
"baby, why don't we die together then?"
remember when we would get high,
just to have fun?Sawyer S.
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Why, am I so cold? I visit a headstone of a man I used to know, a faint realization of fragmented ego. I am so cold. I drop a bouquet of cheap roses onto filthy soil. Collapse. My fists pound the petals to make them bleed. Violence and pain comfort the parts of myself isolated to shame. Why, am I so cold?
Sawyer S.
Addict Brain Poetry by Sawyer 