this day

This day is the only day.

The sun rises and sets

but its just an  illusion.

When I speak with you,

I am not speaking with anyone.

I fly in and out of dreams like a


high on the clouds.

The moon peeks and

waxes and wanes.

It’s all imaginary,

You and I.


nothing but this negligee.

I want to be a slow breather,

where the air enters my lungs
and fills each gap and then slowly exists.

Black is the color of my hair.

I feel like I am drowning when I see you.
Should I feel like I am drowning when I see you?
Is that what it should feel like?
I hope you are around
when my face is white
and airless;
and my lips are red and
filled with strawberry jam.
Maybe I could go back to the beginning
of it all,
to that first day.

Maybe I can drown here in this white porcelain tub.
I don’t need any water.
I am wearing
nothing but this
white- lace negligee.
It clings to my body and
doesn’t know the meaning of

Slam the door in my face, please.

Look deep into the face of this poisonous, cunning snake.

Ask me if I know how to kiss you.

Ask me if I can see you

With anyone else.


Slam the door in my face,

I don’t give a damn.

You are hollow tree.


You are like these shelves.

Do you know how to patch my mind?

Dear brother,

turn your cheek from

This gate.


Don’t ask me if you can get out of here.

There is nowhere to go.


This is the bottom.

Ask me if this is the bottom.


Did you think of it yet?

I know you are barely moving.

You are slow mover

And I am



Write me

When you feel a little better and

know you will never die.

Xo, Ash

Takin’ a load off Fanny or Annie (xoml)…

Today is about letting go and getting things out.  Sometimes we want to hold on to things— and the idea of letting  go can be devastating. Creating something allows us to bring it out and let it go. Here goes nothin’, my friends….

I also, stole some ideas/lines from Rumi. But like, I said before, sometimes creating is all about stealing the good stuff and making it your own.

I want to hold on to the edge

of this empty cliff

like all of this is mine.

I own nothing,

Not even these eyes full of daggers.

That’s what glory is.

My hands aren’t mine;

They open and close


If they were always closed

you wouldn’t hear me screaming.

These fingers never belonged to anyone

and nothingness hangs below

like a withering daisy.

That’s what glory is.

I can’t claim these words,

or how they link together.

I don’t even know the owner of this


Slipping hands are

a story.

There is nothing I can

do to hang on.

and none of it is