Poetry is my language, and Earth is my playground.
What of this dust, kicking up, away, wisping? Breathe, breath of those before me. - And what of me under their feet?
By Sara Wynn5 days ago in Poets
I will steal their time, I will steal their days, I'll have them digging their very own graves. I will steal their lives, and narrow the ways
By Sara Wynn11 days ago in Poets
In this grave, I saunter where faith has murdered me. The taste of rich copper from my own slaughtering by my own gardener
It will never matter what you say, it will never matter what you do; reveal yourself the devil himself and I will still make pretty of you.
By Sara Wynn3 months ago in Poets
And who would not want to interpret what is filed deep within the recesses of my salvaged mind, or sludge through the residual magenta choking the valves of my somehow still beating heart?
We are not where you think you are We are not where I led you to believe I know I covered your eyes, I know I whispered into your ear
By Sara Wynn4 months ago in Poets
I burn candles all day and all night. I can see better without the light, so I keep them lit to dim my sight; hellbent memories are scorched bright white,
By Sara Wynn6 months ago in Poets
Marionette My weakened legs, from having been strung up by the duplicit puppet master king-- His Majesty was done with me. Strings? Cut,
The shine of headlights meets no end, spinning world fast asleep; moon dance between their love-locked eyes, thick trees and crickets sing.
By Sara Wynn7 months ago in Poets
You're holding onto something instead of letting it go to be there for me. And you act like I'm asking so much from you
The world has grown dim, blurred thoughts quick have slowed, cold blood thick flows thin for precious star dust. Sound is loud quiet,
My last song was bled from me when I gave my soul to the wind And I know that I seem far away but the fabric here is thin
