The Lives of Lovers Really Is That Tragic

 Do I lie to you, my love?

Tell you I don’t feel the itch

Or worse to feed it with that silver edge.

Will my lies get better with practice

If I choose the pleasure over you

If I choose my pleasure over nothing.

What do I feel? If anything.

A lived out dream will always end

But stay within my memories

To dream and dream again.

My thoughts stray from the innocent 

To scarred thighs, charred lies.

To things I know I’ll never take

But choose to dream of everyday.

You once were a dream –

Four years have past.

And sudden dreams have never last.

Yet I choose to dream again.

But that’s the fate of lovers dreams

Come to an end.

For now I’ll cut and lie

And commit myself to false goodbyes.

To kill myself is what I choose.

When love is lost,

In the end of dreams,

And where lovers lives will always lead.

By Sarah Walrus

YouTube Poetry

Warning: These poem’s hold strong undertones that may affect younger readers or readers with triggering problems. Themes that may be triggering such as suicide, sexual assault and violence.

I like to listen to people on YouTube rage on about recent politics. The angrier the more interested I seem to get. As long as they make sense and hold some form of intellect behind themselves. I also listen to a lot of vocal poetry on YouTube. Let’s just say I spend quite some time on it. Below are some video’s of some of the poem’s that I enjoy.

Saturnine Films (Cody Weber)  – I Don’t

Sylvia Plath – Lady Lazarus (I studied her this year)

Yes I am a Slut – Clementine Morrigan

Just a few. I don’t want to overload it.
– Sary Walrus

The Fairytale is No More

The Fairytale is No More (Fairytale Nevermore)

Nihilistic deviations.

A shrouded fate.

Crumpled face.

Black, smeared deviant.

Cannibalism of the soul.

A lone horrific fate.

I AM FATAL.

I AM CRYPTIC.

I am nevermore.

No god,

no love,

no blood

to solve this self.

No petty thief –

protagonists rule.

The protagonist is destined

for the noose.

My own self-centred story.

Selfish; senseless.

Perish! -the protagonist?

At the dawn of night.

The castle is gone.

There are no witches to burn.

No bread crumbs leading home.

Leaving my twisted nevermore.

– SaryWalrus

she being Brand

she being Brand is a poem by E.E. Cummings which was a really big influence on me as a writer and student. It’s one those pieces that just turn your world upside down. For me it was because of the format and grammar. This in combination with the amazing ability to transform an image into something completely different; something that is personal to the reader and can come across pure or evil depending on your perspective. As someone who obsesses over format and tries her best at grammar ( I know I’m not the best) it really blew me away. Personally I don’t find this poem misogynistic. But do you?

she being Brand

she being Brand

-new;and you
know consequently a
little stiff I was
careful of her and (having

thoroughly oiled the universal
joint tested my gas felt of
her radiator made sure her springs were O.

K.)i went right to it flooded-the-carburetor cranked her

up,slipped the
clutch (and then somehow got into reverse she
kicked what
the hell) next
minute i was back in neutral tried and

again slo-wly;bare,ly nudg.       ing(my

lev-er Right-
oh and her gears being in
A 1 shape passed
from low through
second-in-to-high like
greasedlightning) just as we turned the corner of Divinity

avenue i touched the accelerator and give

her the juice,good

                              (it
was the first ride and believe I we was
happy to see how nice and acted right up to
the last minute coming back down by the Public
Gardens I slammed on
the

internalexpanding
&
externalcontracting
breaks Bothatonce and

brought allofher tremB
-ling
to a:dead.

stand-
;Still)

-E.E. Cummings.

Pretty Puppies

I am a pretty bitch
with a dull fur coat,
but nothing between those ears.

It’s a tone!
A bark.
A way of life.

Trying to mesmerise,
but it’s never
beneath those ribs.

Don’t talk!
Just walk.
You infertile bitch.

That’s all you’re good for.

-Sary Walrus

Justify This.

Day is dark, cold and grey.
We watch through out our hands.
Liquid from our mouths fills up the glass.
We go to sit to stand.

Stand up, raise your glass
to this patriarchal free.
Let’s watch us fall
with out lustful lies conceived.

Lovable lies are always free.
Until they start to fall.
Fall away like broken glass.
Justifiably.

-Sary Walrus

Kitchen Floor.

Half tongue,

swollen and stuck.

Bruised brain, 

demon laugh.

Thump, thump.

Beat my drum,

make me cry,

lets sing along.

 Listening lobes

never cried for me.

Hate me.

Watch you, hurt me.

There’s no pain 

swallowed eyes.

No soul, no cry,

no more life.

-SaryWalrus

Creative writing Saturday: One.

One.

She sits still, not moving,
Just trying to breathe.
Rocking backward and forward,
Inside that cold, damp rain.

As suddenly as a shadow,
Things fall back in queue.
Everything seems sunny –
but still slightly askew.

Three, two, one,
One moment has past.
Clouds cover the sky, she forgets,
The storm is forever forecast.

-Sary

Creative Writing Saturdays: Governmental Gore.

This was written for Saturdays Creative Writing but I had already posted something that day. Instead I decided to leave it here for when I don’t have time. I hope you enjoy! – If anyone still actually reads these. 


I was going to include a picture of something relevant here but then my computer decided to stumble across a website filled with malware hacks and freak me out so much so that I don’t think I have the heart left to even google.

Governmental Gore

Alien languages are all I speak.

Unreal realities are all I seek.

I’m fighting for the words,

Of extinction, cold and bleak.

Drowning but living; societies torturous nature.

Keep your lips shut because correction is blatant.

I am a human and dreams are my flaw.

Dictating my being, claiming emotional law.

Until then, I’ll sit here waiting,

Less my accent be voiced,

My emotions governmentally dissipated.

All self and dreams are gone.

-SaryWalrus

Creative Writing Saturdays: #11 I Love Nothing.

The cemetery is scenic, sparse of life.

It’s a melancholy feel that warms the heart.

The flowers are dead

but I will be too.

I feel nothing, but I will be nothing soon.