Jagged Little Thrill

Misshapen glances

from beneath

fringed, 

disheveled locks. 

Smoggy air,

thick with 

putrid odors.

Feel. 

Experience

the bassline

invading 

insides:

thumping,

punching,

heavy with

purpose. 

Tissues haphazardly

wadded and 

inserted.

Humidity;

a sweltering

realization.

No melody

in the universe,

no bottle of whiskey,

no ocean's depths

can

drown 

you 

out.

Christina Sawyer (c) 2012

Beautiful, She Cries.

Chance worth taking
heart worth breaking
everything's aching.
"Do you feel me?!"
she says,
arms torn with scars
tears clear as stars
trapped behind bars
she created herself.
"Yea."
But I don't understand
the fist-clenched hand
shook in reprimand.
We sit in stillness
and silence.
I hold her as she shakes,
as her body quakes
as her resistance breaks.
Calling her beautiful,
like no one ever did.
Mascara down her cheeks,
wordless sighing speaks.
Salvation she seeks
in places unknown
to more fortunate souls.
Still I hold her frame,
calling her by name,
as before the trouble came.
And I called her,
"Beautiful."

Christina Sawyer (c) 2012

Verbatim Ultimatum.

Would you be so bold?

So bold as to approach me

With purpose and distinction,

That I would not doubt you?

Send my fears to extinction.

Would you be so bold?

Could you be so sure?

So sure that I could see

Your resolve in your walk?

That I could hear it

'Fore your lips part to talk?

Could you be so sure?

Should you be so steady,

In the distant future,

I would welcome conversation.

Attempts at understanding

Not met with hesitation.

Should you be so steady.

Alas,

even I 

am not

consistent. 

Shooting Stars.

Do not leave me here,
shivering with cold;
Every inch exposed
for the universe
to mock and scorn.
I reach up to grab
a distant star,
hoping against hope
that it might not
shrink back from
my tender touch.
Everything runs.
Like my mascara,
or Aiden's Dad.
Like a watercolor
painting with an
excess of water.
Like my t-shirt
I dyed with Rit
my Senior year
of high school.
Predictably,
the star fled
from my open palm.
But it was not
how I imagined.
What I regarded
with such disappointment,
was not a star
escaping from my
greedy reach,
but one that was
in pursuit of that
which I could not
supply.
Taken aback,
I understood.
"Follow me,"
whispered the tiny
celestial body.
It urged me to
Pursue.
Seek.
Find.
Sometimes running
is not a way
out.
It is a way
towards.

Christina Sawyer (c) 2012

Contentment is...

It is a beautiful night

to be completely

solitary.

I'll bet it's a perfect

evening back home.

I'll bet the sun is 

sinking into an ocean

of magenta waves.
And I remember....

The scent of leaves

tickles my nostrils.

The trees are whispering.

A slow smile plays

on my rosy lips.

My acoustic rests

on my cozy frame.

I am fingering the

comfortingly familiar

chords, humming softly. 

I sink deeper into the 

front porch glider,

kicking off with 

my right foot. 

Swinging,

singing,

swaying. 

My oversized sweater

hangs loosely, and I

feel every current as

the breeze caresses me.

I have caught a chill,

but this would not be

the first time.

Sometimes it is 

refreshing to feel.

As the stars fight

against the city light,

I pause. 

I stare up at infinity,

wishing to be.

Wishing to understand.

Wishing to be understood.

But I am perfectly content here.

A cup of coffee and guitar

are all I need.

I am wiser than last autumn.

I am not afraid anymore.

Yes, I am sure it is a

perfect evening back home.

But it is a perfect evening

in Chicago, because I am

exactly where

I need to be. 

Christina Sawyer (c) 2012