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.

It’s speaking to me

Mid sleep checklist incomplete

Dreaming of writing this

While skating and collecting snowflakes in my pocket

I’m with my old boss looking for the next word

It’s underneath the ice and as long as we keep moving

they’ll appear

Slowly we place each word one after the other

What we build here makes complete sense

Door hinges break without salt so we sprinkle liberally

And we have to crack the window so my mom can hear her alarm

It’s in the next house along with my mom

The moons out it’s big and the night sky makes me weak

So I sit on the porch watching it glisten hoping that in some way

it’s speaking to me.

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*~

Jam Jars

There was this world

my escape

but the demand for my attention was too great

fantasies nudged me awake all hours

the picturesque garden and nipping faries

and the words

they poisoned my proper shapes

in such a fantastic way

in a way hope was made toxic

And so I tilled but not for long

my pride got the best of me

for the world was much too fertile

and I confused the growth

for the jars of jam I canned through the winter.

-Saschia Johnson

 

 

 

 

 

Sad

Some whiskey in a glass

I want to drink it but my belly hurts

There’s world issues

And positive thoughts

Out there

But it just hurts to smile

Secrets or not

Quitting is nipping at my heels

Have a drink with me

Let me forget for moment

This up-hill battle

Only i won’t because

How can i with tears in my eyes.

-Saschia Johnson

New England Cafes

not my business

is she black 
no she’s


⊕ white


 

is she loved by any other

than

the one that’s love is pure

?

it holds her down

*it- a woman, not a companion

Because companions required the stuff she didn’t

have to give

she buried them

along with pure love

in a grave

 

*it held her down

while he pounded

while he finished

 

only to call the next|                                                    |morning and ask

 

How’d you like it?

 

She, a business woman

couldn’t say

“me too”

because maybe he
changed maybe she’s

wrong

 

She changed though

no longer

purely loved no longer

a virgin

 

Held down by
strength

Held down by- not

a companion

 

-Saschia Johnson

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