This is getting personal.

The only thing that is hold me together tonight is Taylor Swift, Welcome to New York.

-I don't think about you like I used to.
Loves.
-S

6.14.15

Veined roads
laced their way through
the checker boarded fields.

A visitor of the sky.

Flashing lights and
muted color
imitate the stars
themselves.

--------------------

Perhaps humans
are meant to
be above
the land they live on.

Loneliness doesn't  seem
relevant
in height.



We're not as big as we think.

We're stary eyed and tongue tied.
Stay golden.

Resolute.

Just some thoughts about heaven.
Perhaps heaven isn't only just a place. Heaven is a collection of things that you love, things that make you feel like you're made from string and gold and released from God's palms. Things that have formed you as a human; experiences that have lifted your heart and opened your eyes. A collection of the songs you grew up listening to. The CD named, "Dad's Old Westerns" that your grandpa's mother listened to. A collection of moments that peace was spoken to your mind. Or the state of contentment, flowing bliss. Or the times when every one is gathered around the table, smiling and laughing and talking about old jokes and love old stories. How often are we mistaken that heaven is a reward for the life we have lived? That heaven is a place. Heaven is a state of being, a piece of time. Heaven is always present. Present in the daily acts of acceptance and progression. It's presented wide fields. It's in clear eye sight and clear minds. It's in freedom and in quiet car rides. In hand holding and safety. In the low vibrating tone that your father's voice holds.
God is in awe at what you possess.

Killers gotta Kill.

Baby, I wrote about you tonight.
It was long.

I was going to tell you, but I  am too afraid you'll ask questions.
I was going to post it.
But I don't want you to read it.
I just want you to know that I did.

I was surprised how much I had to say on the subject of you.
Dream lightly Darling.





-xoxox

Nevada Sunnier

The shadows are high and my reality has sunk. I can't stop rubbing the corners of my eyes. Blinking away my iron and irony; repressing anything the color of blue. We were string and gold. My emptiness is my verb and you are the noun. Pronounced. Anunciate. Communicate. Moon to you and to me. I was a child. Red yellow and blue. That air mattress for a bed creating agitation between your kidneys. Kids and knees. Darling I've been crying for decades while you've only been around to decay. Take me back. Back to the childhood of a confused 10 year old girl. Short blonde hair, singing songs of the sad picking raspberries and running away from the family dog. Breaking pine needles like wishing bones, always letting my sister have the longer end. I've been waiting for end. I've been like this for as long as I can remember. I'll keep the illusion straight, Love.

Lonely is a sound.

It's amazing to me how alone Human beings are able to feel, while surrounded by their own race.

I'd sell you for half a pizza.

It's times like these that are quite possibly the times that everyone talks about. The time of their youth. Living young and living cheap. Pay check to pay check. Spending hours doing absolutely nothing but wasting time and growing cramps from sitting in one position from now until you're laid straight for the first time in your short life, and the lid is closed over your face. But quite frankly, that's not the point here. The point is that we have less than few moments to live and address our sadness and the sacristy of the solutions. We used to dream of these times. Being that seventeen year old girl or boy with our friends and cars. With our reckless ideas and productions. Our curled hair and blackened skin. How everything we'll see will sit quietly in our pupils, rolling around in circles, pacing back and forth creating black holes in our eyes. How the patterns on our skin will smooth out and be pulled tight as we try to find our identity in our stretched our finger prints. All the same. One person after another. One stamp on one paper with the black ink that turns blue after a while. We'll all tie our childhood memories on the tips of our hair and on the ends of our noses. We'll drag them around until they become part of us and we stop being embarrassed about that fact. We'll call each other names, and hope that they receive the love message on the other end of the insult. We'll laugh it off, but really be praying to God that he'll send the message for us. It's time like these when you'll tell your kids that an ice-cream cone was only a buck fifty and that the road north of the gas station was where you had your first kiss.  Being seventeen and cheap is basically everything you've heard it would be. Calling your friends, but still feeling a little too lonely. Giving away your heart too quickly while trying to guard everything about it. Wanting everything but being too afraid to run fast to catch it. Giving too little or too much and only noticing the distances. Counting days and classes, texting mom or dad to "get your outta this joint." Ditching class and complaining of a failing grade. Caring too much but pretending to not notice. Being seventeen and cheap is everything and nothing it's cracked up to be. Being seventeen and cheap is hard and simple. It's times like these that the only thing that truly matters is swimming in a dark pond with people you'll tell stories about someday.

Remember that time I thought I was in love with you?
I'm afraid I've done it again.

March 18&IHAVENOTHINGTOOFEAR

Sometimes I get really sad about my life; and then I remember it's almost summer.

Honey bee, Honey bee
You fly so loud,
Close your wings;
Lets run more quietly. 

ps: I can't seem to stop addressing you as darling, though you are one of my biggest threats.
Darling, someday we will have no further obligation and I will pretend I know nothing of you.

Things that are Things:

I curl my toes and rap one foot over the other.
Those cold feet never seem to heal.
It's raining outside and I'm not quite sure what to do with my arms when I'm with you,
or with my words.
I do that nervous laugh of mine and shrug my shoulders hoping you would fill in the blanks.
Yeah,  of course _ ____ ____ you warm. Is there ____ possibility you could ____ __ ____ warm while I keep ____ ____ warm. Like a _____?
I bite my lip and look up and try to rub the stress out of my temples.
Out of this forsaken temple.
The rain reminds me of my contentment and I hope that everything reminds you of me; but don't really answer that.
I'm not sure what to say or what needs to be said.

Call me again.
I like the sound of your voice over the phone.
Ps. I'm, darling, I won't be depressed anymore if you don't want me to. .

Sarah
xxoxoo

No. 1 Verse 17

I would write a poem or something, but truly I'm defeated. for Now, I'll leave it at this:
Sitting on the cold tile.
listening the the bass of the music and the bass of bodies,
Clambered together
so temperamental.
so clustered.
Sweat, pinched feet, sadness tucked into purses.
perfume and sweat.
But I'm the only one dancing to defeat.
crying on the bathroom floor.
Door locked.
Knees locked.

Stand up.
Wipe up.
Time up.

Last song.
Get out.
There.

Bodies dropped bass.
Salt dropped and pooled.
Preference 2014.

-sarah
xxoxoo

I'll always know what you actually meant.

The xxx

Mark my shallow words sparrow,
One day, my hands won't shake and my ankles won't bleed
And I'll look at your virgin-sorry lips and I'll say to them;
The color is gone,
but love me anyway.

-xxo
Sarah.

Deprived in you.

There have been famous writers, who have tried to address the peaceful moments between sleep and your conscience mind. But this is me, wanting to address how I see  peaceful moments between sleep and everything else.

It's a mother's hand running through a  tangled dirt-curled hair, of a child. It's the ever-so-desired pat on the child's head, from her father; declaring a good girl, upon the child's soul. It's the cold spring mornings, running out to the back yard for peaches; only to be eaten that very morning, with milk and sugar. It's the ball playing, by the light of the street lamps, as summer's heat passes the ball between neighborhood children with the knowledge taped to their shadows that when the darkness come, their vulnerable and naive childhood magic will never be repeated, nor remembered; but only stored in the waking moments of sleep. It's the attempt to run away but only ending up at the library because it's the farthest place the child can carry the strapped knowledge of how to return home; supported by their bike. It's the shopping that the all-so-grown-up-local grocery store to buy ice cream and smoothies. It's the reconsidering of childhood greed and going to junior high and high school. It’s the sitting against the cold wall, listening to that cold music unaware of how cold their hands and feet are becoming; drinking in the fumbled oblivion that their souls are really the ones who are catching the cold. It's the class, the friends, the money, the kissing, all strung together and hung by the tips of their hair. Always pretending to be unaware of their self-conscious show-and-tell displays. It's the cutting of childhood hair and speaking to adults about payment. It's the standing behind counters, wearing those sticky hats and serving those sticky people. It’s the preview into their future; standing behind counters preparing meal after meal, chopping, chopping, chopping, and the hiding behind counters, crying, crying; because of selfish childhood greed. It's a mother running her hands through her child's dirt-curled hair, and the titled pat of a father, the "good girl." It's the ball playing, the peaches and milk, the coldness and chopping all pressed together into a series of images, rightfully titled as life.

So, Darling, next time you wake from a nightmare, covered in nervousness and dipped in sweat; know that your soul may still have that high school cold, while you and it watch with closed, fevered eyes, as life passes you both by; all complied and stored in to your thin-air-cabinet called sleep.

Or that your mother may have forgotten your milk and sugar.

Darinling, with love and affection
-The universe, and a 16 yeard old girl, describing it.

-sarah

xxoxoo

Underplayed, underneath.

Darling, I don't have much to say; on account of, you have seem to taken all my words from my mouth and buried them under your finger nails and your harsh words.
graciously, you've left me a few select words to use and to think.

Words I am aloud to use and speak:
I                      Enough          Here
You                  Label            Speak
Quiet               Close            Time
Quit                 Close            Love
Extremely         No               Come
Sad                 Darling          Come
Cello                Need           Come

I Need You Quit Extremely Sad Cello. I Enough. Darling, No.
Need Quit Come Time.
Love I?
Extremely Close Come Come Come.
Extremely Quiet.
Extremely Sad.

I blink twice for you. And you understand that.
I blink only once for my mother; and father.
especially for my father.
father.

I hang my head upside down and try to see the way you see the world. I hold my soup in my hands and eat my bread in my bowl.

and some how, even after I've turn my head, you still don't see me straight.
You still don't see me.

Darling, I need you to understand that I will continue to do the things I find comfort and contentment in whether or not I have your approval.

Do you not understand that?
Do you not understand that I need to figure out how to use all of the words in the English language before you can take them away from me?

I need to learn to stand for what I want and need to stand for. I need to learn who the hell I actually am and what the hell I actually stand for. I need to learn to find out why I stand for the things I do. and why I have the worst need to stand as far away from you as I can.
and how I like it better when you're not present; then when you are.
and how I like it better when I'm not present; then when I am.

Darling, I need to understand why my fingers never seem to type fast enough and I never seem to write how I actually feel.
and Then when I do, you come to me, crying, asking me why I write such evil things.
and I tell you because that's how I feel.
and you leave crying.
just as you came.

come.
crying.

came.

I dam my throat to my heavy tears and lick the salt off my fingers and try to explain my logic to you.
to you.
and I've been told my logic isn't very logical.
I think you meant to say, my logic isn't very optimistic.
My logic is pessimistic.
not un-logical.

I just need to you accept that fact that you probably won't understand why I do the things I do; until I figure out why I do them. You look at me for answers and for clues into my little, wet, bungalow of a heart; but darling I can't let you in until I've done the cleaning and prepared you a meal. I can't let you in until I know it's safe.
Until I know why you came.
Until I know why you're asking me, of all creatures, for answers.

and I expect that will be quite some time.

Need, Enough. Quite Time.
Extremely.

I want to look at your sun-kissed and human-kissed face and tell you Why and How.
and even more specifically, Who.
But Darling, I can't manage letting you in, my bungalow, until I know every dust and deep depression is tucked safely under my patterned couch. Until I have patted and wiped away every tear and every anxious feeling. Until I have replaced and hidden every main ingredient for my soup - sadness and salty words.

I check my watch, anxious for my guest to leave. So I can quietly unpack my things and start up my fire for the next 9 years - watching out my window for the nearest visitor. So I can solemnly pack my things again and watch you as you wipe your face on my napkin and your feet on my door mat.

welcome.
come in.

Quietly,, Come. I; You Need Time?
No, Speak Here.
You Quit Sad.

I Need Sad.

My metaphor for the World.

aaaAnd Darling, I can't do it on my own.


write soon.
&write to me?
-s
xxoxoo

I'm changing.
Just for you.
Because I guess that's what's good.
or something.

For the Anonymous:

I had something beautiful planned to write for you; but none of that matters now.
And interestingly enough, I know you don't love me; Hell, you've never loved me.
You've never blinked twice about me.
But I'm still going on watching you and biting my nails when I think about kissing you. and most of the time I'm not this straight forward but I'm scared you've forgotten everything I told you.

and I'm afraid I've forgotten everything you said in reply.

but I keep shrugging and blowing that smoke and tar into the air wondering about the night sky and the virgin Mary; along with the non-sense I call poetry. Even though I know the only time I've ever written poetry is when I'm crying.
But I never care to write that sad thing down.

And now that everything has fallen apart and my fingers are twisted into knots over you; I still think about how we met in December; and about how everyone wants to meet in December so they can have something romantic to their name.
I say that's all damned.

And everything is so confusing and I'm feeling so anxious about my poorly thought-out future and about how the days are getting hot.
and how my cheeks turn pink.
and how I can't eat.
I can't sleep.
I can't think.
I can't find a job either..

and how I cut my hair again.
short.


and how this day is hard as Hell.


-------------------------------

It was because all her raw flesh
had disappeared.
and because she had played all
the mind games, after drinking
the alcohol and the bottle was
strung around her neck; like a
trophy she had received.
She was drunk with damnation.
and she appeared as she felt.

She was Hell.

Her eyes painted black and her
cheeks rosed with reverence.
The bones in her fingers
turned away and shied in
the dark.
Her hair, white with
intelligence, mad as her mind.
Significance meant nothing.
Her lips and personality, both,
stolen and scarred with stereotypes.

Tell me love?
-she asked herself.
Are you as beautiful as you feel?

Cradling the whiskey and the sex
she nodded.
She knew she was beautiful;
and that was all that mattered.


I'm tired and terrible.

-sarah.
xxoxoo

dare God:

I envy you and the rest of the world.
-s.

I'll post something better.
But; much later.

My sister & the Saddest things.

--I just want to put a few things out here--

Bicycling through the streets; my jacket tied around my waist, headphones in my ears listening to a rap song that shouldn't be listened to, but I don't care today because it's a little warmer than it's been for the past 10 hundred years and I'm feeling it in my hair and crawling through my bones; finding little nicks and knacks that should have been dusted by now, but haven't been because it's just starting to get warm enough for me to venture deep inside my roots and do the spring cleaning. I have those types of shoes that I can't help but feel bad in and I think about how a boy might be driving by and see me; riding on my girl-bike, listening to my boy-rap; wearing my bad-kid shoes; looking like I have passion running through my wrists and disappointment in my ankles; because that's exactly what I have. It's one of those times where I've almost forgot about everything that's been playing inside my gut, tormenting my liver and kidney stones; getting those feelings that I sometimes think about, and I release a little too many  hormones and can't help but smile because I'm funny and I'm the cool-kid-on-my-block; hell I'm the cool-kid-on-my-state. And I know what you're thinking, because you're probably thinking the same thing as I am, but neither of us want to admit it so we continue shifting our weight and sighing out; pretending we own apartments and cars, and things that make us beautiful. Sometimes we even go as far to pretend we have those apartments where the tables are simple, and probably metal, and we have cool antique things around, here and there; mugs and coffee makers, maybe an animal skin on the wall- and some brick on the wall too. The kind of apartment where the plates don't match and the pots and pans are green from rust but we still like to cook with them anyway; because we just have to rinse them out in our dark sink full of questionable dishes from Lord knows how long ago; but it's doesn't smell or bother us because we have half-dead flowers hanging out the window. I have that watch that isn't nice to look at but I like to peer down upon it so it looks like I have better things to be doing instead of chatting with you, but we both know I have nowhere to go, nowhere to be, and nothing to pretend I'm late for; but I still look down anyway and roll my breath in and out, deeper even, hoping you will understand I like being without you more than being with you. Of course you don't understand, and I didn't expect you to anyway, yet you're still talking while I'm planning my route to travel on my bike later; hoping to receive some forgetfulness and an unpunctual appetite where I'll probably stop at some super-indie-cafe down the street and sit alone at my window table and once again pretend I have places to be and people to see; but I take my time because I know my body has sunk in and my eyes are losing their color- I'm still wearing my bad-kid-kicks and singing along to my music as loud and I feel comfortable, which isn't very loud, but I'm singing and learning the depth of my dyslexia; feeling dumb again, because I like to tell myself I have a lot of things wrong but really I make things go wrong to give myself excuses of why I'm usually distant and hazed over. My grey nail-polish is chipped and my socks have holes in them; and so do my shirts but I still don't care, and if people ask I pretend I didn't hear them or I tell them it has been there since I was born; and they look at me and I shrug because I don't care much for their opinions; but sometimes I get nervous and apologize more than what was actually needed. Eventually I end up riding through the streets counting the cigarette-butts and the lost jackets and the shoes tied onto the telephone wires; imagining wonderful scenarios where most of them I end up with bleach blond hair and I'm the President of the United States of America. I have my bad-kicks up on the desk; tooth-pick in my mouth and the country is up in flames; while my secretary is knocking on the door screaming for me to do something; but I somehow find enjoyment in the lack of power and desire I have to make things right, while slowly the screen is being zoomed in on my face and the background of utter disfigurement is out of focus; and the little, but faithful audience soon realizes this has all been an analogy for my heart; and how it will go up in flame,  while I play my pride card and win all the money.

Lord forbid.

-s

victimize This.

Here. I'll give it to you bluntly.

I wish you'd love me.
and that I could love you.
I want you to know how talented I am.
and how beautiful I seem to be.
And sometimes I just think for one moment
about what it would be like if you thought
about me. But it's alright, you know.
It's alright that you don't think about me.
because sometimes I forget to think about you too.
Let's spit-shake on a relationship
and call it love?

sometimes it's nice to play the victim.
That's been my roll ever since I learned
to play.

-s
let's be busy and acknowledge each
others existence.