A place where you can be human.
I’m sorry you’ve been plucked from your eternal slumber
And brought here to this god-forsaken planet but
I needed a playmate
So play with me
Hop with me
from lillypad to lillypad
Build an army of gingerbread men
Or live in a palace made of one of your favorite things
Please,
Please, play with me
-Sasch
The swing
The lift
The shift
The crack in the glass
The battle on the hill
The mind that won’t stay quiet
And the search that will never end
I want you here for selfish reasons
Mostly for your mouth
But partially because you arouse me in ways no one else can
-Sasch
And at the snap of her fingers
His feelings turned off
Like a switch
The walls shifted
Doors closed
Windows shattered
He didn’t think she was capable of such things
And yet she’d been trying to tell him all along
It wasn’t she that was capable of them
It was him
-Saschia
It’s not to me
It’s to the future
It’s to the bottom of the ocean
Next to ship wrecks
And mysterious treasures
The days blend together like pancake mix
There’s lumps of sleep here and there
But in the end
I think my life would be tasty
Topped with syrup
-Saschia
The space between unwritten and written grows and shrinks
The greatest frustration is being shut out
We avoid that like the plague
and we ride the waves that keep us closest to written as long as they exist
-Saschia
I slept with a man
But now I sleep with
My laptop and my books
It’s not that they’re people
It’s just that this bed
is too large for me
And most nights I fall asleep
In the middle of Reading
or typing
It’s nice to have them there
when I wake up
-Saschia
I’m setting my foundation below the surface
Beneath the bulbs
Mingled with tree roots
Over 100 years old
I sit alone and pick and pick
I ride the drunkin boat
And flow in all directions
I wrap myself in gauze
And slip into the silence
I am here
I’m alive
And my home is rising
-Saschia
The days are spinning over head
I get lost
And high on the things he said
But here I am at 2am
Without him snuggled up
in my bed
-Saschia
The scent of dead leaves
And a wind that stings me to the bone
Oh, to be lost
And found in the arms of poetry that makes an artist out of me
-Saschia
Jayne.press