Circles -A Collaboration

The world in all its glory

still vacant

The abyss below

echoes back words I’d like to decipher

    [will it ever be enough]

Some days the echoes

are all that matter

and even though he’s my world

these echoes are sticky

like a magnetic night sky

without a cloud for miles

Where the comets and planets come alive

and beat

to some universal pulse

strangely connected to the abyss.

But then I’m hungry

and lonely

and I gotta take a piss

so I leave the stars and the comets

letting them die once again.

But when I return the clouds have doubled

tripled

fuck there’s nothing left

the clouds have swallowed my vision

whole

-Saschia Johnson

something about the breeze…
watchful of a comets descent,
inhaling through the eyes,
digesting in the mind
a peculiar empathy of knowing
crystalizes in the heart,
i too have long heard the
gravitous orchestra it follows
in spiraling cadence,
of starbright tears, given to the sky
jaw clenched with quiet defiance
gifting awe
to strangers eyes, a parade of lights
in a whisper
vanishes in majesty…
wondrous to fade so spectacular
something about the wind,
loud so loud,
familiar
crooked grin on a moon,
time traveler alas,
a statue standing in a remembered
sorrow, thoughts
familiar
clouds choke the same,
as decades ago,
just…one difference, in a gratitude
to follow a light parade,
to taste a wind too loud,
familiar gloom, welcomed
to have kept the eyes, heart and mind,
through the decades…unfrozen,
something about the breeze,
familiar to a comets descent.
-Lord Byronic featured art also by lordbyronic
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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*~

Dreamers

Don’t let them get you down

I know you probably supported them

and their dreams so much so that you lost yourself

And now that you’re reaching for the stars

 

it seems they are intentionally avoiding your endeavors

That the support you provided isn’t reciprocated

That’s ok cuz this is your fucking dream

Dream bigger since it’s just you

dream louder and longer

and don’t stop until you have everything you’ve ever wanted

just because they don’t have the courage to support you while you’re learning

doesn’t mean you’ll never be good enough

keep going keep digging

 

New England Cafes

 

 

Passionate Seekers

Empty sex, soulless endeavors and failed attempts at trying to find ourselves somewhere buried beneath all the shit we were drowning in. He called me a bitch in front of the kid and I didn’t like that so I reached out and socked him right in the chin. “I don’t need this. Why am I even here?” Only I knew why I was there. He had this freedom my tiny inexperienced little fingers just wanted to grasp and never let go of. Only thing is his freedom came with a price he wasn’t willing to share. The previous day we were all cuddled up watching Nemo. Snacks mingled with kisses. Things were quiet and I told him why I liked him and he told me why he liked me. It’s for reasons I can’t recall because there’s something about toxic relationships that make the good times fade much quicker than the worst. You gotta dig a little deeper to find the nice girl hidden behind the slutty bitch. There was this one time we made dinner together, daughter in high chair, music on, and bare feet tapped against the black and white tiles. We danced and sang terrible lyrics and smiled in fear that tomorrow was nipping at our heels. And it nipped. I tell him he’s useless, he tells me I’m a whore. We go back and forth till the socking happened. Shitty, I know. That may have been one of those nights I lost a handful of pearls on the floor of some other guys bedroom. We just wanted the release, you know. I’m not sure either of us ever got it.

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This Black Lacey Number

 

Saschia Johnson

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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

 

 

 

 

 

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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Skin Show

 

I kept him sacred

I circled him

finding his flaws In every inch of my poetry

I don’t touch him because

he’s my own sacred shrine

untouched by human artists

Untouched by the words of man

Only to be described in silence by the divine

Whether you believe in that type of thing

or not

he’ll tell you to believe and behind him

I’d nod, yes, conflicted

I want him as my own

but I want the world to know this sacred

feeling I can’t afford to lose.

-Saschia Johnson

 

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Love Notes from my Spine

I’m holding you up

like a puppet on a string

but you have to move your own arms and legs

You can do this, I shout from behind

I support your rapid decline

and slow ascension

Rolling down has momentum

it’s the act of Sisyphus that brings progress.

-Saschia Johnson

Sisyphus c.1870 by Sir Edward Coley Burne-Jones, Bt 1833-1898
Sisyphus c.1870 Sir Edward Coley Burne-Jones, Bt 1833-1898 Bequeathed by A.N. MacNicholl 1916 http://www.tate.org.uk/art/work/N03141

 

 

Featured Image:

Sir Edward Coley Burne-Jones, Bt