Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Ashley Nov 2015
we find ourselves in words and phrases,
the moon consistently turning through its phases.
we live by the sun, love by the moon,
and each day i wish that i could see you soon.
under cloudy skies, my mood is weathered
and around your neck is a wreath spotted with heather.
and though distance is time and time an illusion,
you glance my way and i find my willpower in ruins.
at the end of the world, i'd lay by your side;
even if a comet came, and surely we would die.
regardless of the afterlife, and whether we agree,
the stars spell out a destiny fated for you and me

in your eyes i see the past,
on your palm i trace the future
with your lips i taste salvation,
even though it's a damnable sin,
and in your smile i see creation,
and with your laugh the flames begin.
engulfed and engaged
by the smooth swish of your hair.
befuddled and betrayed
by the blush these pale cheeks wear.
though you huff and hide your heart,
it bleeds out through your lyrics,
and through your music i find a home again
if only you let me near it.
in the night you break the silence
with the softness of your moans
and through your love i've come to realize
i was never truly alone.
Not sure if I like this entire work, but I'm particularly proud of certain lines, so it'll stay here.
Ashley Nov 2015
a bed is just a bed
until it's not anymore
it's refugee from trouble,
it's home away from home
it's where your tears well
undisturbed in the dark
it's where two people ******
and another two made love,
it's where he turned with pits
for eyes and said, "maybe you should go"
it's where he ran when hope evacuated
his body and his soul
it's where your dreams knit together,
where you ghosts reappear,
where your body recharges
and where your fear stalks near

a bed is permanent, a fixture
in your life
yet this bed is not, could not,
ever be mine

dressed in disguise, wearing
a pad and a topper,
this mattress has felt the bodies
of similarly empty hundreds,
reminding me that this bed is an illusion
much like this life i live,,
the sheets constantly coming untucked
as they reject my existence
still, it accepts me during the night,
offering no tangible resistence
though beds are inanimate objects,
there souls find ways to roam
and in this bed, i am acutely aware
that i no longer have a permanent home
College makes you feel strange things... or it makes me feel strange things, anyway.
Ashley Nov 2015
stumbling around through bustling places
all these people run in personal races
i walk among them, stepping one foot at a time
trampling on the sidewalk the same way i try to rhyme
question and concerns circle 'round my head on the daily
and i know there's no heat under my feet,
nor a passion in my chest,
nor a map in my head,
nor a compass to guide the way
life is either/or, not made for indecision
the weather here didn't catch the memo,
since the sky's half gray, half blue
i'm staring at the skyline missing somebody
but **** it all if it i know who
the going gets tough but sometimes
the tough just need to lie down,
and the world keeps spinning even
when it all falls down
in the here and and now
i sing it loud, sing it proud,
follow the crowd

following a path tread by a million others,
am i a boat flying towards shore or
a girl wading through this
honorific storm?
The rhyme joke was real, you guys. Anyone who reads my work knows that I like to throw rhymes in, but rhyme schemes are just simply a joke.
Ashley Oct 2015
the echoes in my mind
reverberate off empty walls
the lights flashing in kind
whisper that time is so, so small
the butterflies gnash around
a sea of expectations
the urgency is drowning now
under the weight of communication
suddenly, my sight is clear
though my eyes cannot see
the way time has ticked off the years
and how i've grown to simply be
in this shrouded concrete jungle
we all run rampant in daily races
though the rest all have their angles
i can only match their paces
the rain shudders on to the sidewalk
impatiently unwilling
and though i hear someone talk
their words read like tired billing
our hands brush and i'm paralyzed
i've never been touched
you move on and i'm terrified
i think this was all too rushed
the sun shines, my skin burns
your words sink deeper still
the moon shines, my heart yearns
my mind still runs like a ******* mill
the terror overtakes me
the people clamor in throngs
and even as my fear attempts to flee
i let go, and fall quick
the wind carries me gaily
the ground is near, i'm feeling sick
the news reports on these kinds of things daily
a failed attempt, or not, perhaps?
perchance this was a failed mishap?
regardless, the world spins on its axis
and i sit here, still attending my classes
Ashley Sep 2015
in the sweeping sepia tones of my monotonous,
rushed life, my chest aches to be sprung free.

the urge of flight has never been more viscerally real,
more capable of pinning me to the spot
until my very bones burst from this body bag
suffocating my chest. never have i felt
so wickedly sick, so obviously the cliche
broken fragile thing bleeding out all over the page.

never have i felt so devoid of words.

it's like before, i was full -  brimming with half-thought
ideas and plots and characters, thrumming with
elementary concepts and words but at least i was flooded,
at least my soul was alive.

with the pain came a different flood, a tidal wave in the dead of
night, a cool soaking of the wicked flames that etch in
the monster's shadows. with a muse came my best
works, my raging thoughts, my torment and despair
and bloodthirsty butterflies battering my guts. with
the depression came the rawness that they lapped up,
crowed about, choked back tears. with another muse, i found
desire and passion and lust in the sinful tonguelipsteeth,
the bony handshipsframe. with all these things i found
the words and found a freedom, however temporary.

with change, i found an empty cavern.

the bottom of the grand canyon, less spectacular up close than from the top. less than. empty. hollowed out.

there is before the fall, there is during. they don't talk about the after.
or rather, they do, but there's aftermath - there's cracks and broken
bones and heaving chests and blood gushing, rushing
to the surface to see the light of day.

i bled out before i hit the ground. what happens when you get
the perfect ten, when you land with ease? what happens
when the potential is there, but the words dry up?

i feel potential in the moments wasted,
the beauty in all the strangeness,
the agony of existence. i see the people and
i want to be their storytellers, their cartographers,
their artist. i want them all as my muses.
i collect them and name them and tuck them away
in pockets too full of secrets, putting them aside for tomorrow,
another day, when i get back to the room but find
myself drowning out my words in other worlds.

i know the potential like the sailor knows the seas.
i see the beauty like the diamond in the rough.
i feel the agony in every second like the swish of
the guillotine.

swish. swish. swish.
out of time, out of mind
existence was a phase; here is the end
of our glory days.
  Sep 2015 Ashley
Akira
He told me my scars weren't beautiful
And I told him that no one could ever really admire a masterpiece
Without taking a few steps back
Your scars make you who you are and no matter what you are beautiful
Next page