I haven’t always been a man
that I could be proud of.
I don’t think I had the capacity
to love anything
but the air I could breathe.
A man of
who have shown me humanity
as I bury friends
Awaken to a life
spent wallowing in hatred
I’ve never recognized myself
crawled under my skin
until I bled.
Awaken to a life
you never wanted
Am I willing to change?
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.
It's a fable now, of a forgotten town. Whispering goodbye to every belligerent blue that must have wasted you. Two was too many yet twenty was already plenty. When had we subscribed to the idea that love was a construct only to be destroyed by the vices we employed? I feel like a child, innocent and praying to God in a church pew as if He could stop and rewind to that one time our fingers intertwined and I felt truly fine. It's all a fable now, of a forgotten town.
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.
“Feral Thought” is Addict Brain Poetry’s former pen name.
Upon barren soil,
a single tulip blossoms;
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
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.
If I ever have the chance of change,
I shall don this hood
and not puddle from rain.
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