This time last year I was writing letters
Apologising for the way I feel
And the way I have always felt
Trying to shift blame onto my own selfish consciousness
And the methods to drown it out
Methods that left more than just physical scars
This year I am no longer writing letters
But every breath is like swallowing glass
My heart beats languid and slow
Every cell of me is fatigued
I sleep all the time and I never feel awake
Fully consumed in the guilt of who I am
And how it must hurt people to love me
So no, I am no longer writing letters
But I am still revising the words.

The unknown tries to frighten me,
throw me off guard, and knock me off my feet.
I am blind, when it comes to the future,
and do not have eyes that could see.
But whatever may come,
I trust myself to be strong,
to take control and move on-
Because that's my story to tell everyone.

A light wave of smoke dances in the air
to sunset musings of guitar and piano,
whose voices gently caress one another,
as passion burns from the inside out.
Souls are awoken from a single drink
whilst children bask in innocent play,
“Weren’t we the ones who ran so freely?”
you purr with a smile as I take your hand.
We run away to the cobbled streets
where music fades and our voices echo,
a stolen glance, an arch of the back,
here we are, young again.


© Sarah Mullaney

Oh, boredom
Oh, anti-muse that makes
my brain feel like pea soup,
not the kind of pea soup with bits of savory ham floating
beneath the surface like little treasures.
Really I enjoy pea soup but I'd rather
my brain not feel like food,
a most controversial subject.
Oh, but give me controversy,
be un-still my heart.
Give me a floor to sweep
a public figure to despise
a novel to write
give me someone to love.
Or else I am left listing dog breads alphabetically
and I always miss some of the b's because
there are so many:
basenji, Bernese mountain dog, is rarely found on a mountain,
bloodhound, Boston terrier, bouvier.
Or else I am left counting the shades of
green in a forest, too many to count once you
start paying attention.
As many as the number of days
it takes for a friend to become a lover,
as many as the number of traffic cones in the city of Boston.