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 

My "L.O.V.E." parody. A classic standard with a modern twist.

"L is for the way you lie to me, 
O is for the only one I flee! 
V is very very, troubling; unsatisfactory! 
E is even more emotional than Titanic's score... 
'Love' is not to be said til it's true; 
mostly when you're over 62! 
Two "in love" might fake it; 
give your heart and one might break it! 
Love: use carefully, you fool!!!!"

nothing.

Can I be nothing?
Can I be
evaporation;
hesitation;
deprecation;
mutilation?
Can I be something?
I'm so apologetic
in the static
for I don't understand
how all I'd planned
could be so damned
and all I am
is in the can.
Who are you?
Nothing.
Your words of
disapproval,
removal,
gone to the grave
just like you.
Can I be nothing?
Guess not,
because the other day,
he told me I'm
everything.
But that means
absolutely


nothing.

Christina Sawyer (c) 2012

Cyanide.

A tiny heart;
a tiny frame.
I wish I could
forget your name.
The way we were.
The way we are.
The way it all
became a scar.

I wish for sleep,
solace and rest!
My mind repeats
in its protest.
"I would never!"
How could I?!"
Remembering
how it all died.

You don't know
the pain I feel
because your love
was never real.
You will never
comprehend;
that hurts most
in the end.

I could scream it
til I'm blue.
I would not
get through to you.
Play the victim,
play the saint.
Whatever picture
you will paint.

This is getting
old so fast.
Trying to
escape the past.
I can't trust.
I can't try.
My opium
was cyanide.

Christina Sawyer (c) 2012

"When You're Broken."

Call me when you're broken,
and the pieces can't be found,
when in the words unspoken
you feel yourself so bound.
I have been through valleys;
I've climbed those same hills.
I understand the torture;
incurable, dark ills.
I know the sleepless longing,
the burning in your bones.
You wish someone was calling,
but nobody's home.
The present seems consuming,
the past a distant dream.
The future now seems looming,
in Its eyes, a sick gleam.
You're afraid of failure,
more scared of success.
You just want salvation
from the cruel helplessness.

Call me when you're wasted,
lying on the floor.
I know the pain you've tasted,
knocking on death's door.
Even when they leave you,
and the rumors start,
I could not forget you;
you'll always have my heart.
Let me drive you home now;
why not stay with me?
We can talk this out tonight,
and end the misery.
Don't you dare deny me
the right to comforting
someone who means the world to me
in their suffering.
I may not always answer
the first time you ring,
but I hope you realize
I would do anything.
Anything at all to spare
from undeserving hell,
the one I've always come to,
when everything fell.

So call me when you're broken.

Christina Sawyer (c) 2012.

and i am

when you don't fit
and the colors run
i sometimes envy
everything you've ever had
because you had it all
the friends you could
walk through the woods with
and camp with
or talk about stupid bands with

and i was the fat girl.

you used to play together
all day and into the night
running in and out of
eachothers' houses
and you had a crush
on her since you were
in elementary school
how was i supposed
to compete with that

and i was the stupid girl.

your friends know all your
other friends and you all
have stories about growing up
and doing stupid things
but i didn't really have friends
growing up i was usually
thinking about tragedies
or worrying about
when i would die

and i was the worried girl.

you said the only reason
you picked up a guitar
was because her dad
said you should and you
said ok and it turned
out you like it enough
but the fact remains
that someone had to
tell you to do it
whereas the only
reason i learned
that keyboard by ear
as a kid was because
it would listen
and it would talk back

and i was the hidden girl.

so i suppose you will
never understand
the scars i have
on my heart
nor will you understand
that you put some of
them there and
i cry when i see
pictures of you and them
because you had friends
and you always acted
like everyone hated
you and no one was
ever there and your
life was such a
mess and blah blah blah
spoiled rich yuppie
who doesn't know
what he had or
what he still has

and i am the smarter girl.

Christina Sawyer (c) 2012

Mississippi King.

Starry country night.

A million miles

into the middle of nowhere.

Mississippi ain't no place

to write a happy song

when your Daddy done gone.

Grandmama does her best

to raise a boy to a man.

Yes, the very best she can.

Mama would've done it,

but money don't grow

like the cotton.

Some things are best

forgotten.

In a cabin in the south,

a King was born.

In the night,

he hears the soft wind

calling through the window;

the creatures in the meadow. 

The bullfrog's on the water.

The moon, the sun's sad daughter.
No one can teach the blues,
it's something in your bones.
it's a callous on your hands,
a chair rocking alone.
No one can heal a hurt,
that's deep within your spirit.
But his guitar begins to play,
and everyone can hear it.

He thinks to himself,

that he is destined.

No one would guess

that in the future's daily news,

the boy from Mississippi 

would be 

King of the blues.

Christina Sawyer (c) 2012