Bloody nose again

the iron taste drips down the back of my throat

reminds of sex and immorality

tissue against my nose

morality fell out of my hand some time ago

I say that in a ignorant manor

not a some philosophical way that might make this poem a tad more shallow

I slur words at young lovers

wishing them luck

knowing that there’s a chance one will be left

more broken than the other

I clink glasses with my demons

and pour a swig for the good people

gone too soon

I walk between grave stones looking for one with a great last name

and we become friends.

I tell him over and over I can’t do this

I can’t do this, again

He listens and waits for more of what I have to say

you know because the dead are much better listeners

We sit quiet together

it wasn’t comforting

but, in a comforting way, there are no black birds




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.

This Black Lacey Number


Saschia Johnson



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


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



She changed though

no longer

purely loved no longer

a virgin


Held down by

Held down by- not

a companion


-Saschia Johnson



Skin Show


She is

She’s got magic under her fingertips

waiting to be unleashed

She glances up

and manipulates the entire sea

when she cries

a black hole of sadness warps everything in her path.

When she’s happy as a Daisy the waters recede

which could cause drought for days and days

the pendulum swings from her to I

causing down pours and sunny days

seasons placed in the hands of her feelings


-Saschia Johnson




Missing You

Missing Yougirl-1464038_1280

It’s a been a year, since you went away

I wish I could have said what I wanted to say

I’m still here, looking for answers to explain

Why you decided, your life couldn’t be the same.

Missing your voice and the look of your face,

Knowing that no one, can take your place.

Certain songs remind me of you,

And your memory will always be true.

-Doreen Schmoegner

Doreen Schmoegner began to write poems at 15 years old.  The writer has poems published as Doreen Hobby at Poetry.com and has written many short stories.  People inspire me to write, is what Doreen says.  A former teacher in college invited me to join a monthly writing group and that was 17 years ago.  Recently, I started an Advanced Fiction Writing group which I call, my intellectual stimulation.