I Look

He set me on fire then he kissed me

He leaned right in and kissed me

Right there in the flames

I still question whether it was him

I think back to it

I look for strings

I check the mirror

Then he let me go

He let me go like he should have when he met me

It stung to know I have less to offer him

but

You see, I’m no longer the type to be chained

Not to love, not to men, not to anything other than my dreams

And so yes, I cut my insides on his shards of glass

but he fingered my demons

As he watched the blood drip drip from between my thighs

-Sasch

This is Who

I watched her rise above

I watched her question who she really was

And demand who she would become

She didn’t sit still for a moment longer

She pushed through and persevered

And now her home is quiet

And still

She worked for this peace

She stepped out and stood tall

And worked til her inside matched her outside

Til her life matched her dreams

This is her lifelong journey of becoming

This is who she is destined to be

♡ Saschia

Will Write For Tomorrow

Light in the distance

A globe or maybe an orb

It flits around the corners of my heart

Dashes against the edges of my mind

I look and touch and smell

What it may be like

I want things a way

Smooth oiled machines

But life isn’t so oiled

It’s jagged and rough

There are times when moments

Connect seamlessly and those I pocket

And dissect later

But mostly it takes work

and prayer

and sweat

-Saschia

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)

 

the unwritten character