My new single, Fiction, is now available on iTunes and Apple Music. Keep an eye out for it on Spotify within the week.
It’d rad of you to check it out!
The first few chapters of my New Adult novel, On the Outside, are now available for free preview online! Check them out here: https://www.wattpad.com/myworks/48439856-on-the-outside
I hope you’ll adventure there and check it out!
“Beautiful…inspirational songwriting…her debut EP, Paint by Numbers makes you want to stop and take a moment to enjoy the company around you and the beauty the world has to offer.”
-Shelbie Young, COUFest Photographer, Musical Connoisseur
T H I S S E P T E M B E R
PAINT BY NUMBERS
Writer: Sarah Dinwiddie
Producer: Charlie Ross
Album Artist: Luis Bergos
pen: marking up words,
scripting loops over misspelled screw-ups,
The word planks, the dotted i seeing and
still bleeding through.
I wish they wouldn’t.
Each pen stroke is a bar
caging half-seen thinks
Each phrase a car full of half-crazed
passengers screaming something
that sounds like truth
and looks like pimpled, braced, trembling youth.
One fresh foam white bodice grew from a chitin mermaid tail;
bride: bliss was the veil fanning from her forehead.
I wear fresh cut hair, short chic on tall chick;
new feels model beautiful—in the wake of bridal bliss, feels magical.
Back of the room view: young men tied to cameras aimed,
clipping moments out of time to hang up and dry.
Preacher strings short thoughts with too-long threads;
I daydream: who is the photographer in dapper threads behind his lens?
Hearts and mouths erupt—“Man and wife!”—now it’s time for cake.
The sun and his moon cut with hands and hearts eclipsed.
Now: Let’s dance!
My eyes lock with a best friend, words unspoken said:
what marvelous mountaintop moments; what handsome single men.
Sound kernels baptized on behalf of holy veterans flick my face,
shot by elastic radio waves,
striking my eyes, stinging sights into a pixely Warhol style of
vomiting violent neon signs—
kosher brands and canvased advertisements,
Public Service Announcements:
rows of SPAM cans burping tobacco spit over the sides,
rows of green gun barrels with purple flowers flailing out and into the mud,
rows of Marine wives and children with faces blue and black and yellow and
CRACK. Another sharp kernel. SMACK. Another automated sentence.
Like postcard stamps punched out
one right after another
sending out to all corners of the States
the message of conditioned reverence:
blessed art thou for being Saved by the Military.
For my sister.
This is what I hear
When out of that heart
Like grown men of an African bush tribe
Clip-slipping their feet in the hot dust
Around a broke-fire
White dark dirt shoves up
Out of the roots of the earth and
Races up on the heels of them and over the high-topped feather headdresses of grown men
And rising up and out the sound of an overwhelming shout of challenge and victory and defeat
As the sound rages out of their muscle-y burnt bodies and their heart beats
And then you are
The one who ran ahead
To shove his spear first into the lions mouth
But got torn in half by its jaws.
This is what I hear
When out of that heart
Death to mother
To your lover
Like every other somebody out there
Is a lion that needs to be taken
Down by a man
Poem originally published in Promethia Literary Magazine, Spring 2013.
Dirty fiber optic chords
clumped into burnt hemp rope:
hair. Each dead cell strand a
weak wisp of my fragile femininity.
Male friends, almost-loves
drape banners of caution over me—“Men like
Their women with long locks.”—
but I ache to tear off the dirty blonde titles
and watch them flutter to the floor between
Black breeze pulls strangers’ marijuana smoke
Between deck splinters, up our nauseous noses;
Night brings to Cherry Street a symphony
of multicolored voices, tires tearing wet pavement,
Urban wind whistling through metal sheets.
Under the too-sweet-cake smell I stay
Because you stay with me. It forms a fist
In the back of my throat, but I stay
Because you stay with me.
Black silhouettes behind your slanted shoulders
Lean in, spread lips into each other, know;
Night brings to Cherry Street a subtle show
Of red neon signs, bursting beams of headlights,
Christmas strings suspending us in a yellow glow.
Your lit eyes, innocent, watch me watching them;
Your mouth smiles sweetly. Blush rises on this pale face
as it turns away, that you won’t watch me watching them;
Your mouth smiles sweetly.