Crumbs Dishes

I’m in search of symbols

I search the worst places first

starting with Social media

the dusty ones

Those few I should’ve deleted

a while back

I clean the house

Because they could be mixed in with the dishes

Or with the crumbs on the carpet

And when that’s through I sit and think

And think

If I were a metaphor where would I be?

There’s the trees

the oceans

The sky and wild creatures

Love, heartbreak, Death

Is it possible that the search

is the metaphor

The crumbs the dirty dishes

the urge to find a connection

-Saschia Johnson

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~*Energy Drinks*~

~*Energy Drinks*~

I take a sip and my vision comes clear

My thoughts come from behind my skull

and hallucinations would plague me

if they weren’t the object of my reseach

Sleep after a glass of relaxation

my feminine eyes narrow and

disperse into the horizon where

wind meets the lips of God

And when the can is empty

I’m woman no more.

-Saschia Johnson

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Skin Show

I.

I see the crevices where my mind has changed route

Where the blood has stopped flowing and changed direction

To kill off the illusion of rage and hypocrisy

There’s a skin shed in the corner of the room

no one speaks of it but me

Who’s skin is that? Who was left so empty?

I cry and point and stammer on revealing my weakness

Telling them I can only be human and nothing more

Not a god, not a demon, but the pattern of survival

And the louder I plead the looser the skin

til it falls to the floor

Just like that one in the corner

then a sliver of light shines between the curtain

 

II.

Behind the scenes, behind the curtain

I reach out a hand stitched together

with puppets of skin.

They roar and laugh and join in in song.

What a masterpiece!

                                     Pure Genius

                                                                Everybody must sing!

 

III.

sometimes

Once in a blue moon

a shed human like me steps behind the scenes

With their skin in hand crying begging pleading to be loved

And the whole time I was begging and pleading with tears in my eyes

Hoping that just one other miserable misfit would shed,

step behind the scenes

And join me.

-Saschia Johnson

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between the carpet and the comforter By Michael Morlock

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. 

 

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