Tag: art
Artists
The road winds in a manner
that seems as if I keep walking in circles
but there are very subtle differences
differences only a curious person would notice
like the flowers are a different shade of blue
or the bugs are crawling on their backs rather than their bellies
Makers of art wander on and off this road
collecting things
while others trudge trudge doing the same thing
over and over
Artists do at times get caught in the monotony of it all
because we are one of the others
however our path is different
it is of more depth
less conformity
(which might I add is much harder than it sounds)
Our satchels fill with old cocoons left behind by butterflies,
odd shaped rocks,
and twigs wrapped in twine
left as symbols of where we’ve been
or left to warn of places we dare not tread again
So it may seem as if we are constantly stuck
in the same ole rigamaroe but trust me
We are not.
-Saschia
(Yes, I wrote rigamaroe)
Here, I Am Here
My reality is a dream
I sit in it everyday
I wake up to it and fall asleep to it
I ran from it
and now I grasp it as tight as I can
I don’t want to let it go
I don’t want to be anywhere else
Here with my loves
Among their blooms
Among their thorns
Is where I wish to be
-Saschia
Little purple person
Who are you when you’re
not looking,
when that sweat is dripping
from your brow
When your feet are up
on the couch.
Can you define yourself?
Not your hobbies
or your top responsibilities,
but who you are,
those spaces,
between your out-right
maddening choices?
“I’m a little purple person,” it whispered in my ear. “I run and frolick and think of the many ways I can return to you. It’s just a matter of getting to you.” It takes ten huge steps away from me, but since it’s so small it doesn’t get more then 3 inches from my face. It sits, crosses it’s legs, and faces me. “In between the spaces is space, my dear poet, it’s space to be filled with memories and love and if you even feel the need, hate.” The little purple person then lays down staring at my popcorn ceiling, and places two arms behind his head. “And if you must know, my dear poet, the space between my maddening choices is balance. Where the imagination runs wild because the madness isn’t present, but it was and it will be. Some call it peace, but I believe, my dear poet,” he faces me now, “it’s best left temporary. Because to grow we must change.” He goes silent and slowly closes his eyes. I study this tiny person. He must be no bigger than my thumb. I roll over and look at my popcorn ceiling. My eyes slowly close. That could be true, it could be true.
Thanks for reading. Check out more here.
Propped upright
Upright because I can breath
no other way
Propped like a doll in a pillow shop
placed snug between designer pillows
Except I’m no designer item
Just a prop
A comfort
a symbol of home
I am home between the pillows
not because of the pillows
I’m home because the stuff inside me
the stuff that fills me to the brim
it’s all I need
whether in a shop
in the arms of a loved one
or left to collect dust
doesn’t matter
I am home
Stitched Together
From time to time I think of you
From minute to minute you cross my mind
From hour to hour I’m lost in our fantasies
If I stopped I might lose you
So I leave myself little reminders
Moons and doors
and stars as big as your eyes
The truth is I don’t need reminders
But they bring me closer to you
-Sasch
We Go On–We All Do
Funny how things work out
How people show up
And make you proud of who you are
Or make you feel less than who you are
both people come and go
They make impacts
They go on with their lives
With their red Rose’s or their brass scales
And think briefly of you now and then
or maybe more
who knows…
-Saschia
Two Baby Girls
She dances while I sleep
And hiccups while I binge watch Netflix
She’s a part of me
One with me
Her sister is my closest friend and family.
She lights up my life with her smile
and makes me feel at home with her presence
Two baby girls to hug and love
to sing and dance with on the kitchen floor
I’m so proud
I’m so proud
-Saschia
Untitled
I give pieces of me
Raw and unfiltered
I give every night my last thoughts
My dreams nightmares and wishes
And I worry that I’ll be misunderstood
-Saschia
A Distant Symphony
There’s this tiny space inside me. It has a tiny door with a button handle. A button you’d sew on a shirt. It was a fancy gold one. Round and shiny. I could hear music playing from the other side so I got on all fours and placed my ear right up against it. The music didn’t grow louder it stayed as distant but I could see flickers of light dancing just below the door. Then the smell of cookies and gasoline and cupcakes and charcoal intertwined in my nostrils. It was conflicting but curious. There was only one way to solve this. I had to turn the gold button knob and open the door to that tiny place inside me.
