The Door to His Heart
By: Sabrina Wakefield
Sitting alone in the room,
upon the naked floor.
Heavy metal only a murmur,
against the white walls,
that whisper their secrets,
of love and me and him.
One wall girded with swords,
from regions of the world.
Long, short, sheathed to the hilt.
Some unclad and glinting.
I ran my finger along the blade,
as if it could take me back,
to the time of knights and kings.
Another side of the room,
bears a mirror where I saw,
myself not only in reflection but,
in photographs and memories.
Remembering how you looked in kilt,
me in the crimson plaid skirt.
And the door, navy laid on ivory,
had been opened wide to me,
which I entered happily, curiously,
stupefied, dizzy and high on red (love).
Against the wall stood a bed,
one sheet, one pillow, one place,
for him to sleep and dream.
The shimmering scent of Calvin Klein,
buried deep in the cotton thread.
His ghostly self there, or so I imagine.
The window letting light seep,
through the dark, thin, drape,
casting rays onto the floor.
There I sat and pondered,
How long it had been, a month,
soon to be two, smiling I basked,
in the warm light of the sun.
The door had been opened to me,
I entered with out second thought.
My door had been open, brown wood,
he entered with out worry or doubt.
Toss the key into the dark abyss,
the rooms padlocked with iron chain,
our hearts sealed, welded shut.
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I Am From
By: Sabrina Wakefield
I am from family and friends
From playful kittens to lazy cats
I am from worms and dirt
And embarrassing face wipes
From “Don’t touch that” to “Clean your jib”
I am from random screams of craziness
To silent softly hidden tears
I am from long thought filled walks
From the ground beneath me
That gave me road rash countless times
I am from freezing snow in my clothes
To sweating my face off no thanks to the sun
From the comforting singing of my mother
To the blaring guitar riffs and bass solos
I am from old school videogames
To the new but same old Nintendo
That controlled me more than I controlled it
I am from carefully drawn lines
To vigorously erasing my imperfection
I am from licking the beater
To attempting my own culinary
I am from the years that sculpted
Me into an unique masterpiece.
By Sabrina Wakefield
Red birds hopping to and fro,
snow mixed winds blow,
everything seems to glow.
Snowballs roll as they grow,
crystallized white snow.
Frozen hands and feet,
face red as a beet,
boots crunch snow as they meet,
blanket of sugar covers the street.
Tromping through the white,
coat buttoned nice and tight.
Sun shining yellow light,
sparkling the glistening icicles,
shimmering snow covered bicycles.
Suddenly quiet no sound.
Snowy trees all around,
a new love to be found,
Cold wintry bliss,
old man winter’s subzero kiss.
The Nature of Poetry
A rain drop from the sky,
falls into a spring.
The spring runs into a creek,
and then to the river.
Poems flow the same way.
A single idea will flourish and prosper,
eventually becoming as vast as the sea.
With a strong mind and soul,
the hawk soars higher,
diving down to talon a mouse.
Like a poet grabbing an idea,
taking it in, breathing it out.
Devouring the mouse heart,
to keep its own beating strong.
A dandelion seed floats,
through the sky on wind.
A little dancer, twirling,
sinking gracefully downward.
Spinning like a beautiful dream.
Weaving her way through the air.
Through the writer’s undecided mind,
a blissful entrancing ballet.
The babbling brook flows,
over rocks and boulders,
only slowing its stride,
to over come obstacles.
Rushing down hill, gurgling.
Like a poet jumping hurdles,
of stanzas and rhymes,
tripping, only once to spill
his heart onto the paper.
Cheaters Never Win
By: Sabrina Wakefield
Bill had suspicions his wife was cheating on him, when he found her with Ken in his bed Bill lost all sanity. It seemed to be depleting since he had started working at the morgue. Now he sat alone on the couch stuffing saltines into his dry mouth. He chewed methodically remembering that day, the look on her face when he barged in, shock and hidden apathy. He knew she didn’t like him working at the morgue, she said that it was changing him but he was still himself wasn’t he? Bill pushed that thought away. It was the last time he saw her, her face scarred his deteriorating mind. Fighting that image out of his head was getting harder and harder. He threw the box of saltines on the floor and laid down. Sleep, his only escape now but even then she still invaded his dreams. This constant battle with himself would never end. The darkness took him and once again he dreamed of her, apathetic face vivid in his mind, hatred flared like wildfire inside.
Bill woke the next morning, he knew what must be done. He had to kill her, strangling her would be a pleasure only he could enjoy, taking away her breath slowly and painfully like she was taking away his sanity. It was the only way to relieve himself of this darkness that was consuming his life. Bill knew it had to be done, cheaters can never win.