Matters Of Love

The gates of my garden are left open to wanderers

They say I’m too friendly and I shouldn’t be so trusting

and that matters of love are a waste of time

But that just isn’t me

The roses have died and bloomed

dried out

been over watered and pruned too early

But come spring they show their rosey pink cheeks

as if none of those things

ever mattered.

-Saschia Johnson

 

 

New England Cafes

CampWrimo

I have decided to try out CampNanoWrimo. I lowered my word count to 10,000 words and I’m thinking that was a fabulous idea since I’m kinda lost where I am with editing my poems, screenplay, and whatever else I finally finished over the last year. Editing is no joke. I see now why they call it divine. Feels like it’s going to take a miracle to get through it all. Right now I’m just hanging around trying to figure out what I’m doing. So please bare with me on my erratic posting. Alas, I’ve joined a writing group at the public library which will hold me accountable so don’t worry. I’m going to figure this all out!

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Forest Baby

Branches slap her skin

She runs through the place

Like it’s her own

She’s lost but she just keeps going

Webs tickle her nose

And a thousand baby spiders crawl under her clothes

She’s a forest baby This is her home

-Saschia Johnson

 

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Been working on editing my collection of poetry and figuring out the best way to promote and sell it. Very exciting and very stressful. Definitely learning a lot. yay!

 

Photography- Morality Project

Goth Tessa Dana Chris

Photography/Editing: James Futrell

Hair: Melissa Payne

Makeup/Creative Director: Saschia Johnson

Models: Tessa Dipallina and Christine Talamayan

 

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Wanna read more? Here’s another great piece from our Morality Collection by Geoff Blanchette

 

between the carpet and the comforter

By: Michael Morlock

curled up on the floor, surrounded by toys, crawling under your daughters blanket just to try and be close to the things you love the most, and it’s still only you, alone, smothering beneath the coloured comforter, neck at a harsh angle, face burning against the coarse carpet, willing and wishing for something, anything to come fill you up, but you’re still empty, like the crib, like your cupped upturned hand, like the passing days with no child or partner to hold on to, to help you hold on. vision is rope. and the further you try to make it extend the more frayed it becomes. 20/20 summed up when all is said and done is 40. that’s only a few more years from now and the rope seems pretty thin and faulty on certain days. days frequently named “too often”. “all the time” in the parlance of childish over-exaggerated speaking. if there are even words. not just mumbles. whispers. thoughts which never quite reach the mouth to find their way out and you no longer comprehend the difference or the fact that these things only are spoken in your head, and you wonder why no one hears you anymore. did they ever? if a person falls for longer then a short rest, do they make a sound anyone can hear over the raucous din of their own lives?
will we even notice the passing of one another as we travel on our journey? or do we not recognize the ones who’ve lost direction until it’s too late?
loneliness burrows deep, undermines the roots of trees, the foundations of structures, the will of even the strongest souls.
so much of life is the slow dirt crumble waiting for the cave in.

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Michael Morlock, a father, artist, and time traveler from New England. You can find him @themancalledmorlock