All those books they made us read,
The smelly yellow-pagers
That weighed as heavy as the guilt
We felt as "zombie teenagers";

Do we remember anything?
The names of the main characters,
Or maybe, who died in the end--
Or the ones who were in pictures?

It wasn't that we hated books--
We didn't understand them;
Before the teacher's spiritless voice
Made us slowly condemn them.

"Memorize the vocab words,
And don't forget the spelling!"
Was that the point of literature?
But definitions aren't compelling.

So all those hours in English Lit,
The days spent reading Steinbeck,
Were soured by the grouchy face
Always looming over my desk.

I always wished someone would say,
"This isn't boring, here's why:"
But I was told to shut up and read
When sometimes I wanted to cry:

"I hate this story! Nobody's happy!
And everyone's messed up!
It doesn't make sense to force it on us
When we're already stressed out."

But we had to read it, because they had to read it
When they were young in school.
This book had an impact in history:
So now, reading it is a rule.

So if it's a must, that's fine, then.
But...why don't we make it fun?
Or talk about the psychology
And learn something when we're done?

A book can't be everyone's favorite.
We're all different people inside.
But please try to make us all interested
With wisdom only you can provide.
Steinbeck, Dickens, Orwell, Bronte, Fitzgerald, all those depressing writers that we were forced to read. I only liked Edgar Allen Poe, and that's saying something!
Job
The day begins before it should,
and every minute is squandered,
before I jump into the car,
spilling hot coffee in my haste.

Then the rushing wind blows past me,
running through my hair in the dark;
headlights keep up with the sharp turns,
and the thumping stereo lifts me.

Parking, on time, walking briskly
to ensure the grandest entrance
to give a formal impression.
My echoed greeting meets my ears.

Hello, goodbye, I take over,
holding my vigilant station
as I toast bagels with butter
and wait for them to call me up.

"Ashley!" comes the petulant cry
and I manage to answer her.
"Coming!" And I take a slow sip
before heading up creaky stairs.

They want me to pick out their clothes.
They want me to help them get dressed.
I say, "You can do that yourself,
I'm here to do hard things, like cook."

Teasing, admonishing, waiting
for children to do what I asked;
I take one more sip of coffee
and the cup is gone far too soon.

Soon, they are eating their breakfast,
and I'm prepping backpacks and coats.
Something spills, and I clean it up;
then she says she forgot her shoes.

I tell her sister to get them,
but she won't go up there alone.
So we three climb the creaky stairs,
and come back with their socks and shoes.

We run out the door, lock the garage,
and jump in my car for a ride.
"Seatbelts?" I ask before leaving,
and they both ask me for tic-tacs.

A minute away, and I park.
They jump out and both wave goodbye.
I smile and wait for the school bus.
I drive to my next job, next door.
Work as a nanny, it's not for everyone, but I love my girls.
Cry
Frick.


Don't feel bad for yourself.
You have it so good.
You have a house
to live in
You have clothes to wear
You have
a family
who loves you.

You have a boyfriend
who wants to spend the rest of his life with you.
Everything is going to be okay.


Bad things suck.
Good things are hard.
Life takes a long time to get right.
Goodnight my darling,
sleep until the morning comes
and wakes you with its gentle finger
of sunlight, shining on your pillow.
Sleep until the clouds break the dawn
and steal away the night
from under the moon.
Sleep until the day is bright
and the time is right
and your eyes open wide.
Sleep tight. <3
Ashley Somebody Oct 2017
Surely my life's work
Will be worth as much to them
As it is to me,
Waiting for sales to show here
To feed my music budget.
I've published a book. http://www.lulu.com/shop/ashley-spence/poetry-volume-i/ebook/product-23389434.html
Ashley Somebody Oct 2017
All of my dishes, stacked in my room
Am I a slob? Please don't assume.
Clothes—whether dirty, clean, or worn—
I know the difference, though they're strewn.

Twinkling lights strung overhead
Match the lamp beside my bed.
With dust my dresser is adorned,
And my favorite chair is red.

I see the beauty in the mess;
Why do you cry in distress?
Mom, I like to live like this.
And I have no one to impress.
Ashley Somebody Oct 2017
Inspiration grips my soul
And gives my mind no peace;
I try and try to let it go,
But silence baffles me.

Sometimes in the darkest night
It's dreams that haunt my eyes
And sometimes, inspiration's height
Looks about agony's size.

Ideas sometimes look like pain
And memories that hurt me;
And beautiful though my song may be,
Perhaps its roots concern me.

But art, it lies within the choice
To make a lie show truth
And find the love inside the voice
Of your heartrending youth.

Don't build your statues with ashes:
Compress them into stone,
And watch as sorrow clashes
With love that builds a home.

Darkness is no shelter,
But is an invitation
For light to burn the better
As fire: my inspiration.
Pliny the Elder said: "The depth of darkness to which you can descend and still live is an exact measure of the height to which you can aspire to reach."
Next page