Poetry is my language, and Earth is my playground.
You were supposed to be my husband,
and I have been through such hell since.
I'll never believe any promise,
chained alive in your absence.
By Sara Wynn11 months ago in Poets
It's not that I hate you,
but that I don't love you.
It's not that I'm leaving,
but that I'm not staying.
It's not that I'm lying,
You never knew me,
and you never will.
You never saw me,
never, not until
it was past too late,
no longer fresh kill,
Your words meant nothing,
my words meant everything.
You never ever listened
to the words I was saying.
I said what I meant,
Long-winded lark, lamenting life,
liberating lone lost;
larghetto, latent leitmotif,
luring lullaby loft.
Lointain; life-like Lieder, looming.
What of this dust,
Breathe, breath of
those before me.
And what of me
under their feet?
By Sara Wynn12 months 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
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 Wynnabout a year 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
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,