Still Written

There are many times I give away my time to write. I give it and give it and give till I’m writing 10 words and starving for solitude. I know I should hang on tighter to my time to write. I should be more demanding but it’s such a slippery thing. It shifts and molds in countless ways. I grip, then I give my last five minutes and I’m left grasping at nothing. I slip away because writing isn’t something that can come or go. I, the writer am coming and going. Writing does not cry without me, I cry without it. I ache and spiral and shift when I’ve strayed too far, but it is always as I left it, blank, unfinished, or completed. But when I return I won’t be exactly the same as I was when I left.

-Saschia On Writing

My Sleeping Baby

She sleeps sitting up

Cradled between

two couch cushions

I toss her favorite blanket over her legs

Even though I know she’ll kick it off

She has her hands tucked below her chin and her knees pulled in

I lean in to hug her and kiss her little head covered in brown locks

And tell her I love her

I always hope I contribute to her good dreams

-Saschia

Reading Energy

I read the same line 6 times

Then when I tried to leave I backed into my mother’s car

That’s when I decided it was best to stay inside

With the book I’m too tired to read

I stare at the letters and they don’t stare back

The words they have sounds and proper places

But they sit there with no meaning

Not these words here that you’re reading

because they are coming out not going in

It’s the going in part that’s not working.

I’ll try again tomorrow morning.

-Saschia