Give me an answer,
Even in the slightest of sounds
Because your silence, it kills
In my head, like a hammer it pounds

Stop. Maybe even look at me?
Or throw us out of the window, i don't care
I pretend i don't, but i actually do.
Am i not worthy to be in the sight of your stare?

Sure, lock me out for now.
Once you return, I can't guarantee me.
I've been trying so hard for a week now.
I'd be surprised if after all this, we were still meant to be.

All my favourite songs are tainted by memories of you.

I'm sure you've observed it, that thing that they say:
Experience tends to just get in the way.
If I'm in the mood for philosophy talks
I don't go to scholars from Stanford or Ox;
I'll turn right around and go down to the docks
and get some philosophy out of the box.
I don't fool around with those **** engineers;
their time was just wasted to study for years.
I just grabbed a fellow out drinking some beers,
said I needed a rig that is spacious, and yet
can climb like a Willys and turn like a Vette.
He said he'd deliver December the third;
if there was a problem I'm sure I'd have heard.
And if I was feeling some pain pretty keen
from down by my liver or maybe my spleen
I'd talk to a fellow I met at the zoo,
say just cut in here, take a minute or two;
if you see a bad liver you'll know what to do,
and soon I'd be frisking around like a goat
and coming November, you know how I'll vote.

I made a film last night about a man
who hates  neckties—silk, cotton,
and bow.  It is a documentary
of sorts,  that reveals  his
drawbacks, peccadillos,
discrepancies, lies,
and misdeeds.

I am the only character, me,
you can not watch it.
Never.   It is mine
to slowly edit,
and wallow
as I view.

I come to you
in your vision
of my world
a century away
without any faith~
brocade drapes drawn
against your wet
English whiskey streets
to tap my love at
your unconditional door
after months have gone
from friendship fleeing
like men at
the confessional
and I know that though
the days continue to
roll around like
smooth pebbles
there's no need
to worry about
whether or not
your accent will
still recognize me

Written by Sara Fielder © Dec 2015

It's hard to look at the moon , when all I see is that tattoo on the back of your neck.

These trees don't look as good as you do in an old t-shirt of mine.

The radio stats quiet , because I only ever hear the songs you'd sing while you were sitting next to me.

Show me the path
That's narrow and straight
I'll put on my shoes
And be on my way
I'll turn to the blues
And tell them to stay
If my shoe strings come loose
I'll leave them where they lay

There won't be a thing
Holding me back
I'll throw over my shoulder
A single backpack
With nothing in it
As there'll be nothing I lack
As I follow in life
This chosen path

So I sit and hope for it to be over,
Praying that I'll remain sober;
As I overlook the sunrise
Watching it's slow demise
Atop a scenic mountainside.
I'd ask myself over and over, 'why-
You found love with someone else
Yet I found myself begging for help
Only to bear that I've fallen silent
of always being in complete reliant
On your shoulders when I needed to cry
And your warm words when I wanted to die'.

I cast my eyes on the sunset
Watching all that it begets,
Only to realise no matter how
That simple yet quotable vow
We promised to each other
Of being eternally written lovers,
Yet we disparagingly fall apart
Unable to mend pieces of hearts
Crushed by the torrential waters
Into minimal multiple quarters.

I wanted you so bad to turn back,
Yet you left without ever looking back
And I had hoped I didn't see you walk away;
For that moment is seared into my memory even today.