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Scarlett May 15
Aim your guns of flesh oh mighty sailor!
whisk me away on those washing machine waves
Turner, hath you come to keep those ravenous omens at bay?
Embrace me now while I banish this inner monologue
through my skull, to melt infinitely into your indulgent rain.
S K Anderson Jan 2019

It’s little more than a quiet thought.
The impending feeling that the loneliness
was a creation of my own imploding self-conscious.
I wouldn’t have hurt you voluntarily,
so what outside force could know my mind so well?

It’s little more than a spoken word.
The rumble of the oncoming storm could be felt
from as close as 1.6 miles away,
where the darkness of your room invaded the
not-so secret spots of your heart.

I’m prone, to the truth in your words.
I’m not used to the idea of confronting my thoughts
And sorting them out to you.
Is it that I spoke wrong words? Or I stopped before they meant anything?
You mean so much, and now you are out of my reach.
I did the first two stanzas and Austin did the third. I really like it, it's the first poetry collaboration I've done.
S K Anderson Sep 2018
Every first time is first done slowly
and then like it's your last.
And when the words tumble out of my mouth
like a whispered avalanche,
It's all I can do to pray
you'll say it back.

But first you stare.

My mind goes a thousand different places,
revolving around the axis of rejection
strung by your silence.

It must be only seconds but it's stretched into
a quiet forever inside my mind.

And when you kiss me instead,
it doesn't calm my fast-paced heart.
That is, until you pull away with the words
close on your lips.

I love you.
Those three words have never made as much sense as this moment.
I rarely write love poems, but what else can a poet do when their heart is this close to exploding?

S K Anderson Aug 2018
When the lights begin to look a bit like roses, you know you're in for a trip.

The challenging nature of my bones begins to melt away, leaving only the part of me that wants to paint pictures and tame hearts.

My mind is only occupied by the thought of your hand in mine and my only wish is this moment for the rest of my life.

Maybe it's unusual for me.

But I begin to feel that you're my manifest destiny.

And the soft wind and cool-aid sky only add to the idea that my heart is one moment from exploding.
I swear I wasn't on drugs.
Though the soft summer light is a bit of a drug to me.
S K Anderson Jul 2018
I'm afraid you're my
skeleton in the closet
because you pulled my hair
and broke my bones
but if only they new
I enjoyed it
Odd thoughts from today.
S K Anderson Jun 2018
Your smile is unfairly noticeable.
Your voice is disrespectfully low.
Your eyes are rudely easy to get lost in.
And yet, I don't.

Do I?
A different boy this time.
He's been a friend for years,
I can't help but ask myself this.
S K Anderson May 2018
I let the musty air fill my lungs
as it begs to remind me of
where I'm from

I grew up reciting lines
like I was just acting fine
when really I was just a child
with nothing better to do
with their time

and what was a hobby
became a passion
and what was a passion
became forgotten
I visited my childhood stage today,
from where my performing career began.
I do really love theatre.
S K Anderson May 2018
I've almost forgotten how your
other-worldly eyes
peered into my
melancholy soul.

How your
key trained fingers
traced my
summer-kissed skin.

How your
wiser-than-mine words
changed my
impressionable mind.

Almost, but not quite.
Ah, he appears again.
This boy is always showing up in my poetry,
even if he doesn't show up in my life anymore.

S K Anderson Apr 2018
She's got a poet's voice.
One that makes sounds
as effortless as the wind,
describing the way
her mind wanders in Nevada.

I wonder if my voice sounds like that,
when the phrases exit my lips.
I doubt it.
If she sounds like the wind,
I sound like a old train horn.
The second poem from the Poetry Reading Trilogy.
A hint of hyperbole makes everything more interesting.
S K Anderson Apr 2018
You ran the knife along your arm
until the plastic cut your paper skin.
As I pulled it from your grasp
you asked why
the pain and guilt
gleaming in your eyes
and I noted as I looked at you,
that plastic knives can cut too.

You never said you were fine.

I mentally compared
your arm to mine
holding back tears because
I was too angry to cry

The half cross you bear now
made me furious
because there was nothing I could do
to change it.
You'd gotten to far along
without intervention.

And I took responsibility.
It felt like my fault.
Like the wound was on my arm,
and I poured in the salt.

I'm sorry.
You deserve more than the faint scar
I've always hated that ending.
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