Two Letters

I wrote two letters, and sent neither.
One was full of heart, emotion
I could not contain, it spilled out of my fingertips and onto the page.

I wrote two letters, and kept them tucked under my bed.
One was full of hate,
a rage I could not manage,
a fire that engulfed me in flames,
it’s points were valid but all was beyond repair.

I wrote two letters and addressed them with your name.
I thought about you reading them,
and how I might ruin your day,
either way, whatever I had to say.
My news would darken your doorway, any heart felt words would be to blame.

I wrote two letters,
one to you and one to me.
One was full of hate and regret,
cursing myself for feeling
the feelings I’ve felt.
The other was a simple note, something sweetly said, something I’ve decided not to send.
Words worth saving for someone
more deserving.

I wrote two letters and saved them,
now they’re just reminders of who
I used to be; sometimes loving and soft, a side rarely saw.
The other fickle and jaded,
bitter with good reason.
A woman used to men
who throw words without aim,
break walls only to kill whatever lies in secret gardens,
claim “love” just to make
hearts harden.

I wrote two letters, and I’ve decided
not to ruin your day.

When I was Blue: notes on how to grow up


First poetry book, with my (kinda real) name on it! Baby steps. My publisher is picking this up and I will be keeping all rights to the body of work, I think I’m approaching this in a very sensible manner, my Grandma would be proud. I have a book of short fictions that will be out soon, it’s my baby, very precious pieces of work…I have some things left to finish between school, work, kids, mental breakdowns, heartbreak…you know, life shit. I would honored if you chose to purchase a copy of my book.
You can go to, head to SHOP, and then type in SARAH BUZZKILL. You’ll find a hardcover and a paperback copy, (of the) same body of work. To those who have supported my writing, thank you so much, I have lots more to come and I will continue to read and support you. Write on, to all.


You were family,
thick with blood and love
fiery-eyed, a storm raging.
One, but one of us.
You had something more
than forty-six, something deeper
than just that fifth sense.

and now?
You were family,
thick with fibers, woven tapestry.
Tree, with deep roots.
Braced for every impact,
Blood and love, years intact.
The game and it’s plan,
effortless, hurdles jumped,
and now?

You were family.
A bond, unbreakable.
A piece, irreplaceable.
And now?

Hate Season

Some days you hate yourself,
more than you hate
everyone else.
Explain this to me,
why does there always
have to be a reason?
Say something.
Say anything.
Yet, you say nothing.

(There’s no way you
can pretend it didn’t happen,
you have to process it.)

Nothing will change it,
nothing but time.
Time changes everything,
and until then,
you just have to hate yourself,
more than you hate everyone else.
You remind yourself how
life is just a series of seasons,
it matters who you go through
those seasons with.
I need to know that
it all means something.
That it means anything.
That anything means anything.
Before I can hate you,
more than anyone else.



Made of common things,
like sense.
Touches to feel,
Rarely excitable,
speaks volumes without voice to
enhance the audible.
Plausible, surface truths
are real, but visuals
cause the biggest betrayals.
Eyes play tricks, the mind
does what it wants.
No regard to the heart
and it’s internal happenings.
These webs we’ve woven
can so deceive.
In this light, it’s hard to tell
if this is truly me.