Home » Poems » Best » Sarah-Jean Seymour » Best Sarah-Jean Seymour Poems

Best Poems Written by Sarah-Jean Seymour

Below are the all-time best Sarah-Jean Seymour poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Sarah-Jean Seymour Poem

Ambien

The muddle of sleep—
The grand entrance to Morpheus' legendary palace
In whole or half a tablet; 
Easy breaths of chemicals
In pretty, light-refracting bottles.

I prepare myself for an escorted journey
To where dreams float from their origin
Like glossy bubbles through netted neurons
I am the keeper of sedatives—
An expert in manoeuvring through fallen thoughts

Don't they know I need sleep too?
I need this perceived travel through time
To kiss my lips—
To enter slowly with its glowing tongue
And seduce my mind into a comfortable numbness—
To lug it, like a limp body, 
Away from the sounds of rubber through rain
Onto a restful shore.

Yes, 
I do vie
For my senses to trip, drunkenly, 
Over one and other
Like a vague rolling wave in cloudy space.
It is actually a religion
Or maybe I'm confusing it with religious consumption—
Swallowing rotund solidity
Like a whore swallows fluidity.

This is not ecstasy
This is prescribed tranquility, so it's OK.
Okay, and infinitely sweeter, 
Because it does not put me in a hot air balloon
With a finite fire.
I don't ever need to descend;
Just open my eyes to the sun through my blinds

Society is dancing on my back
Across my stomach
Trying to expel the demon inside me.
I love these molecular robots; 
They drift with a purpose and close the dock
Where insomnia frequents.

Afternoon shakes off grogginess, 
The invisible lotus leaf
Stamped on my brow, 
And pulls me up the conscious ladder.
I don't want to be here.
Circles of slumber—those precious pills
Are always as good as I want them to be—
As I beg them to be—
As I need them to be.

Details | Sarah-Jean Seymour Poem

Have a Little Faith, Sweetheart

The softest gossamer gown is never welcomed
Where vodka jumps from tiny glasses
Jilted by sweaty grasps.
I am a flower that blooms morality, 
A sober weed in a lush garden.

This penthouse party 
Is a collage of mesh tops and darting eyes.
I saw the bar leaning on you for support, 
Your blue eyes rolling back to watch
The easy elegance of
The serotonin transactions inside your brain.

The fire escape 
Kept tripping you when you tried to run, 
Didn’t it?
I did my damndest to help you, 
But that cold black metal
Didn’t let you stand up straight for even a moment.

You seemed exhausted,
The way people seem to get when they search
And search for something they can’t find,
So I held onto your waist tightly
While you told me how beautiful I was—
How I could shine brighter than the sun herself.

I fell into silence on your couch that morning.
I tried not to.
I sang folk songs to myself,
I jammed the ridged lid 
Onto the bottle of silver sleeping pills in my pocket;
They couldn’t kiss me they way that you did.
I slept anyway.

“I didn’t want to leave his drunken body!”
I yelled at my Mind’s figments, 
“Put me back on my coiled steed!”

I woke up worried, 
And you woke up depressed
Because you had lost a little more
Of that thing you couldn’t find the night before.

You disturbed the comic section
One, two, four  times that morning—
To avoid that strange feeling you get
When you look down at someone
And still feel small.

In my dreams, 
This is where we have incredible sex, 
You buy me a waffle maker, 
And we are every definition of “happy.”
But,
Because you walk away instead of dissolve,
Because we are not stranded on a desert island,
Drinking coconut milk beside our rescue fire,
And because I have enough taxi fare to get home,
I know I am awake.

So, dear boy, please wake up too.
Your dignity 
Didn’t drown in alcohol when you were inhaling it.
Your smile is dulled, not dead, 
And your elusive future?
That thing you can’t catch, you can’t see, 
You can’t hold, you can’t find?
It’s been in your back pocket all along.

Details | Sarah-Jean Seymour Poem

Emotional Doors

We're bending,
But not breaking.  
Is this good?

I've grown tired of dialing, 
Ashamed your phone number
Has become a memorized muscle movement--
A seven-numbered cod
Printed over my eyes
That spells out "home."

I am trapped.
Trust is only a phase;
A tiny brush stroke on the canvas of my life
And more than I am afraid
Of causing you harm,
I am afraid of harming myself.

Details | Sarah-Jean Seymour Poem

Dancing Dead

You are always 
Dancing dead on the inside.
Lots of drugs swimming with lots of alcohol, 
Moving your feet to the beat you taste
But not the beat you feel.

You are always
Dancing dead on the inside
And beyond the point of feeling—
Comfortably numb from dizzied head to heart, 
Laughing at dry jokes
To conceal the refuge of Indifference in your mind.

You are dancing dead
While I sit here, attentive, 
Absorbing every blow
That comes from the mixing of your sweat
With the perfume of a compromised girl.

Dance dead.
Lift your feet just a little higher.
Stumble, intoxicated, from p.m. to a.m. 
Crowd surf—
Anything is possible when you’re seeing double
Except for finding stable ground

When you are dancing dead
Everything embodies perfection
From the blaring speakers
To the garbage bag that becomes the saviour
Of the laundry on your floor—

You are always 
Dancing dead in this shape shifting cave
Where shadows of the drunk and drugged
Flicker ominously on the rocky walls—
Where we never look behind us
To see the light.

Details | Sarah-Jean Seymour Poem

Insomnia

I cant find in me
A love that strikes all at once
Or chains me to your neck
Until my fingers cannot feel.
I look for interest in your company
Or in hearing your affection
Resonating in my heart,
But all I really want to know
Is if you’ll ever approve of my
Lurking about the city at night.
I wonder if you sleep still
While I drag my heavy body
Across groaning floorboards
Hand-in-hand with 3am.
You are my boyfriend;
I could call you—
Disrupt the air in your quiet box.
But I sink back into my pillow
And let you dream peacefully.