It took a long time for me to consider myself a writer. I still struggle with saying it. I started writing at a young age to work through feelings I didn’t dare tell anyone. I learned that once you start writing, it becomes a part of you. It’s something you always go back to whenever you are overwhelmed with certain emotions. People don’t always listen to your words, but the paper always listens to the pen.
i want to admire your truth.
i’ve always been fascinated by the kind of art others don’t appreciate, the poetry etched in haste on the bathroom stall, the graffiti scrawled on passing train cars i suppose i love the abstract, the undefined, the stuff we share thinking no one will notice (but...
rise and fly.
these sheets hold tightly to heavy bones i made my home in them while the sun rose and fell, wrapped myself up in this cocoon and waited for the night to drip stars from the sky i move within their light, escaping a skim of shadows by melding with the moon i tip toe...
this winter weather speaks to me.
the windows are open, cold air winding through, taking with it the last days of autumn and ushering in the arrival of the first snow blackbird is playing on the radio, the foo fighters version i was never a fan of the way the beatles sounded, but the lyrics are good...
you are the hope that steals my doubts.
you have always been one of those people who believe in rainbows and mythical dreams you live where coral skies meet cyan seas but me, i am i n c o m p l e t e my heart lingers under midnight skies my shadows still swim inside the storm -ashley jane
she brings life to the cold.
winter is coming she slips from the mist, the queen of dark things spilling from a beautifully painted sky she creates art from madness and faith, a masterpiece delicately drawn with ice
we are a mess of emotions.
we are all scars and open wounds filled with all the lives we live and all the deaths we meet we are comprised of a million types of silence only broken by the rapid beating of softly shattered hearts we sink like stones in their sea of sound we swing on a pendulum...
this place is called safe and warm.
daylight paints the skyline in shades of yellow and tangerine, tempting flames to decorate the blanket of snowflakes and ice and i seek shelter from the storm in the arms of someone who feels just like home -ashley jane
Book Review – Serendipity by Samantha Modica
Serendipity is book of poetry by Samantha Modica that captures love and heartbreak in vivid detail. Her use of allusion and metaphor allows her stories to reach out to the reader. Her poems read almost like a novel, mini snapshots of a larger story that lingers in...
let me remind you.
my heart is made for warming my words are meant for screaming my mind is an autumn sun, and my soul is a winter moon you said i am a spell waiting to be conjured you move within my madness, fingers lingering between my meanings i ask you to pick your poison, and you...
thoughts that tantalize the tongue.
flavors float through memories, just a taste to remind me of the moment when we collided, cranberry and lime staining my tastebuds with visions of you -ashley jane