THE LIGHT

I feel you approaching.

Your vibration sends shockwaves

through the universe.

Icey shards of shattered men 

are diminished to dust in your wake,

and without a second glance,

they slip off your shoulders,

never to be remembered,

forever floating in a vat of darkness.

Every inch closer

threatens my atmosphere,

to breach my way of life.

My instinct is to brace for impact,

go fetal

hope for a near miss,

yet my pulse leaps feverishly through my skin,

and my sky’s partway 

as I invite a collision course

for lust and desire,

and certain death.

You’re inescapable. 

and I realize it’ll soon start again,

the birth of another decade

the scorching of my entire surface

and the draining of every last resource,

just like last time.

Even if it kills me,

I yearn for one more moment with you.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

So, let’s kill the dinosaurs.

©2024 Chris Sadhill

His eyes 

explored the void

frantically,

and his hands clawed at the emptiness 

for meaning and purpose,  

yet he grasped nothing.

he catapulted

through the universe

at the speed of light

without coordinates

to a destination unknown.   

He was a castaway 

naked and afraid. 

time was his space ship.

©2024 Chris Sadhill

Endless forest in a natural state,

we douse the flame.

Too often we intervene

Conserving and preserving without foresight, but

burning is crucial, and historic.  

We must watch the flames eat away the past

and clear the deadfall for new growth.

So, let it burn.

and save the water for drinking.

©2024 Chris Sadhill

The radio 

plays the same song as yesterday,

as the day before,

and the day before that.

I’m waterboarded by a tsunami

over and over 

because I refuse to forget 

what you sound like,

and I’ll continue to suffocate without you,

and I’ll continue to listen to my favorite song.  

©2024 Chris Sadhill

The eastern star rises

and kisses the unattainable foothills.

A spring flower breaches permafrost

and defies its winter coffin.

A butterfly straddles a tulip

and its color grows more vibrant.

A new day,

A new growth,

A new beauty.

and A new you.

©2024 Chris Sadhill

I love you,

more than all the words that I could ever arrange when describing my feelings for you.

I write you,

with my own red ink, into a boundless book, where every page is a new canvas for an unexplored memory that is soon to be written, and my heart is your bookmark.

I offer you,

a speechless love, where every glance I steal, is a syllable with a poetic intonation, and every touch we make is a sentence that runs on infinitely.

I whisper,

every open wound, my biggest fears, and reveal my deepest truths into your precious ear while you are sound asleep, living in another world, where I hope, you don't forget to wear your crown.

©2023 Chris Sadhill

At first you were reluctant.

In fact, you turned away.

Perhaps it was too dark inside,

or too dangerous for you to stay.

But your urge to find a diamond,

among the heaping piles of coal,

overcame your impulses to avert the dangers,

and so, you entered bravely with a pick axe, and a hoe.

You dug it deep, and trenched a path,

to the center of that pitch-black mine.

And when you finally struck a bleeding heart,

You had met me for the first time.

“Hello.” I echoed out of the darkness to you,

reaching out my trembling hand.

You said “Hey” in return, and introduced yourself.

Now our conversation has yet to end.

You shined my heart, polished my soul,

and smoothed down the jagged bits of remaining coal.

You formed and formed me, then sharpened my lines,

and turned me from a crumbled stone, into one that brilliantly shines.

Now, I grab my tools with no exit or return time,

to step deep inside your shaft-tunneled mine.

I begin to dig down, blazing inside you a new ditch,

With no intentions to stop, until I too, strike it rich.

©2023 Chris Sadhill

The electric sizzle of thy emerald skies,

reminds me of her tonight.

So, I drink to see her yet again,

a brush with death I invite.

If I may, and if I will,

close that fatal deal.

With her again I shall promptly be.

The aurora of her eyes, I steal.

©2023 Chris Sadhill

The man without a voice, obtains one.

A life full of deaf ears,

never being listened to.

He lived on the fringe;

Out of their trash-bins,

feeding off the scraps they shoved into him,

like he was a baby bird,

yet he was hungry,

and ate any piece of meat,

regardless of its authenticity,

He was either stuck in the nest until he died,

or forced to jump out.

A spiral straight to the bottom,

he fell flat, but now had a story to tell.

His written words carefully chosen,

inked into a font that sets the mood,

and placed on uniformed paper as if he’s in control,

as if there is order in his life,

as if he is preparing his last will and testament.

The importance of detail is crucial, this may be his only shot.  

He layers his compilation like a baker building a cake.

A life full of stories, Oven set to 450.

A speechless assault on society,

An examination of the human soul,

an autopsy of himself.

An opportunity to entertain, to uplift,

to speak from the heart without ever having to say a word in front of a crowd,

because people scare him;

Trust doesn’t come easy anymore.  

He unclogs his arteries,

filled of repressed suffering and inflicted pain,

then soaks the pages with new blood.

Sealed and bound into a time-capsule,

he then shares with the world.

He gains a watchful eye, attached to a mind, attached to thoughts,

and can now send sparks of inspiration directly into their souls.

An electric connection of black and white;

A static symphony of contrast.

The simplicity in his words forms a complex message,

asking questions and demanding answers.

and a man who never had a voice,

now sends shockwaves around the world.

to be heard.

©2023 Chris Sadhill  

I am not what you label me to be,

though you feel you are employed to tell me what you think, what you feel, or how I can be a better use to society.

What you fail to realize is that I’ve already heard those words, from myself, from the all too regular passersby on the street.

But that’s not what defines me.

There’s no need to go any further, because at the end of the day,

I determine what definition I want my name to read.

It’s all too easy to say just leave,

but have you felt the iron fist of love hit you on the cheek?

Have you put in the time to heal your wounds, yet remain loyal to your commitment to the one you vowed you’d never leave?

It’s harder than you think,

especially when you stand by hoping for it to change.

It’s harder than you think.

There’s no need to go any further, as I contain more strength and fortitude in my swollen eye than you produce in fifty-two weeks.

My shortened hair is like a beacon to you.

It’s been ten years since we last shared words, yet here you are with your keystrokes of sorrow as if you’ve been here indefinitely.

There’s no hand to hold or a warm embracing squeeze,

just the coldness of kind words shared digitally.

I am more than the diagnosis I received.

There’s no need to go any further, as every remaining hair on my head contains an accomplishment, I set out to achieve, or a memory I had once created,

or a life I helped inspire to believe.

My thickened armor is not here by choice, contrary to belief.

It’s not a product of laziness or lack of responsibility,

yet you don't hear my explanation and continue to chisel away my exterior with your daggers and blades, attempting to form what you deem a perfect human being.

My armor exists, in part, as a symbiotic response to your misguided needs;

A habitual overdose to fill the void, to cover the pain, and to ignore the hate.

My Armor Protects me.

There’s no need to go any further, as I am more than just on the surface or skin deep.

My whole body is molded with perseverance and shaped with the idea that one day

I will be happy. I am happy.

I am not a freak.

Look at you, looking at me.

It seems you are vicariously living in my shoes trying to man the helm,

when it's you who's lost at sea.

I am not a label, a bruise, an illness, or what I eat.

Despite what society deems to be proper, at the end of the day, I am Unique.

There is no difference between you and I. We just view things through a different set of eyes.

There's no need to go any further.

© 2023 Chris Sadhill

Money doesn’t make the man,

his word does,

but loose lips grow quiet

in dark alleys,

not Nasdaq floors,

so, any decent man

would be detoured

from doing the right thing,

especially one with

mouths to fill

and a roof to keep.

I hang my head low

watching the ground move

beneath me as I walk home.  

My pride and ego

both cleansed by the

emptiness of the morning,

but it’s within the shadows that I blend in.

I wear the black for them.

Upon my broken back

they eat their breakfast,

and wash it all down

with discounted milk

and cartoon giggles,

using my stained shirts as napkins.

I don’t care

because as long as they’re full,

they sleep well,

and make it to the bus on time

I am doing something right.

God knows there Ain’t much

I’ve gotten right,

but I’ve never begged, borrowed,

or cheated to survive.

Some do

and some win,

but most pay the price.

Living among the filth

keeps you true,

and most of the time

the truth is all you have—

And being quiet

adds another box on that calendar

to be Ex’d

filling you with the hope

that you’d be lucky enough

to find a way out

before it’s too late.

Even if all the riches

filled every ocean,

today’s children would drown

trying to swim them

because uncharted waters

and false horizons lead to certain death—

But wearing a suit of black

can be a heavy burden

dragging you under just the same,

especially as the riptide of the world

pulls at you.

So, why teach them how to wear that heavy suit?

Because I want them to struggle enough

to learn how to swim upstream,

and be learned enough to know

when the water’s too rapid

to get out.

I want them to hold their breaths knowing

that air will eventually come back

and they will resurface

because every night

they watched their dad disappear into the shadows

always bringing the sunrise back with him.

I want them to think

if he did it

then they could too.  

©2023 Chris Sadhill

Too many times

you’ve needed a place to crash,

and I said no,

but caved despite it.

This toxic love

is our perpetual demise,

our Tango de la Muerte.

Once inside

you smash up my walls

slash the chaise and pillows

then refuse to leave when asked.

Never again!

Your memories are on the lawn,

along with all the years of your shit.

And you're no longer my tenant

Effective Immediately.

©2023 Chris Sadhill

Use your blade shaped with vowels,

to cut me deep through the vein.

Hang your noose made of verbs,

So, I may cross over that plane.

Kill me with your story,

Then bring me to life with your words.

Stitch me back up,

only to tear me apart from the herd.

Let me read one more saga,

and begin where I did start.

Let me feel what you felt, 

When you wrote the pages from your heart.

©2023 Chris Sadhill

Bury me

where the sun doesn’t shine

and lay me to rest

once more

under the old oak tree,

where we once

held hands,

where I

stole my first kiss,

and

where you

loved to read

to my illiterate brain

even though it never

made me smarter—

I always daydreamed

to your voice.

I always fell asleep

to your words.

I’ll gladly take root

in that tree,

for it holds

the only memories

of my life

that matter

and probably

the memories of

a few men before me.

It’ll just be me

and a couple of guys

reliving our best times

falling in love

forever.

© 2023 Chris Sadhill