I'm opening up a booth in a handmade store.
This is my facebook.
This is my tumblr.
I should start posting here more. :/

I wish I had money so I could go here.

I have to go. Right now.

ASHLYN DON'T FORGET TO WRITE A POEM ABOUT HOW UGLY ROSES ARE. I'M SERIOUS. DON'T FORGET. THEY'RE SO UGLY.

I got fired from Michael's. I'm a nanny now. I'm going to college soon. Hopefully by January. I don't know where. There aren't many places for girls like me.

My book is getting sold. Which is beyond epic and completely unexpected.

I'm drained and lazy and overwhelmed but I can see that changing soon.

Life might start to make some sense up in here (up in here).

Places you can find me when I'm not here (as I am usually not):

http://myhattiesburg.com

http://brookeworm.tumblr.com

facebook

formspring

4chan

I want to write for you. And paint. And poem. I will. I will, I will.

I have to go outside.

lol @ people who deserve things.

btw. click the unicorn. a lot.

Dear blog,

I cheated on you. almost every day. with Tumblr.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

I'll post some more for you.

--Ashlyn

“

We could spend afternoons like spies,
we could melt off our fingerprints—
not even the people we promised to write
will recognize us.

Once we start diving deeper,
they told you not to jump in—
the shock of the cold could eat you
alive, the salt water nipping behind your
kneecaps, you’d go into shock

(it’s different here).

But we’ll be safer.
here hiding away, I’m glad we
kept our heads down in the train station
when the badges came in with night sticks—
I’m glad that little girl turned in her seat
“Mommy, the cops are here.”

——-

I met a deer at the four way stop
near your mothers house,
got out and spoke with him a while
he chewed on my busted headlights—
tied his antlers to my head:
“You look like you belong out here.”

and for a while I stayed there
laying next to him on the ground

“What do you think about the stars?
The mothers at the grocery store,
the fathers seeding harlots?
What do you think about being alive?”

And when he did not answer
I lay there next to him—
pretending we bore the same scars.

I watched the sun dance, back and forth
across the sky
noticed time was moving again.

I felt the weight of antlers on my skull and smiled—
winced as a tear fell over my lips,
“I’m sorry.”

And I swore I saw that old corpse move,
turn to face me—
“You will quit wasting your life
you will live it lovely.”

A shy smile broke over my face
and the doctors checked me—
wondered still at the girl with
antlers on her head. They called me
crazy. They called me young. They
called me stupid. They sent me home.

And you were waiting there.
You were there, with a worried face,
with a heavy heart, scared.
“We’ve got to get out of here
and start living.”

I baked bread for supper,
I packed our lives in bags,
boxes, baskets—
held them in my arms.

So we went out, took a train to an island
where we had new names,
we called our mothers on the internet
to say we were alive—
we were still young children!

flowers still bloomed there and it was still like
home, only lovely

and again the darkness came, some people
of the island mistook it for night time—
they did not know of the things that followed me.

I ran my finger tips against each other. Felt
their smooth surfaces.

The Things came. They came as they always do,
sounding like car crashes, my parents’ infidelity,
every sound that had ever left me gasping
for air like a fish.

And when they came to me, searching for a girl,
and found me, with antlers on my head and life in
my eyes, when they grabbed me by the wrists and
pulled my fingers to them, rubbed them on their faces
and could not feel the subtle indentions that proved
I was their target, they looked down at me again in
disbelief.

“I am not who you are looking for.” My arms raised,
daring them to question anything.

“Question anything. Look for the darkness within me.
There is none.”

And they did look. They did open my
mouth and stare at my teeth,
pinched my arms, listened to my pulse.

They could find nothing but Life and Lovely.

I touched my hand to my antlers. Felt the point
on my finger, I pricked my thumb against them,
and bled.

And there was so much life in that blood,
so much certainty and hopefulness,
so much lovely. That the darkness,
the Things, went back home.

And in their absence I felt a certainty
that cops, death, no one was ever after me
that I spent this time running
from myself.

Finally proving to the shred of me left
that we’re still going to make it,
but maybe we just can’t do that
at home right now—
and I’m sorry.

”

—	“A Child’s Life Is A Wilderness: live lovely” —Brookeworm

i c a n t d e c i d e t o s l e e p

I dreamed and woke to fizzle pop and it wasn't easy
when I felt the noise all drop and silence bloomed, lingered queasy.
I fell victim to the bottomless tomorrow--

I slipped a flower in my ear and only heard machines
pumping hearts and blood and oxygen--honestly it seemed
like it might be a good idea to slip and dream away
another bottomless tomorrow, today--

My leafy tongue lay motionless in my thorny teeth
drooling puddles you could slip on if you never watched your feet
eyes glued, fixed, and blooming to the sunshine tv
you look like you've been sleeping days.

D O N T P O S T P I C S O F Y E R F A C E O N T H E I N T E R N E T

N O M O R E S I C K D A Y S

a hundred hour glasses half full and we're still fighting over cold spots on the backs of our pillows "I can't sleep, can you?"


after all the heartache sores on our hands your still checking my nails for dirt. "Quit biting your fingers."

I tied my sheets in a knot in my throat and cried all night. "I don't know what you're talking about."

I smeared the fog on the bathroom mirror and I thought I saw you standing there.

she's not ugly. but I'm going to pretend she is.

(RE:) I P O S T T H I N G S L I K E T H I S O N F A C E B O O K

I'm not team homeless bum. I'm team help them. I'm not team give them five bucks and feel better about yourself. I'm team start something.


Volunteer at a soup kitchen. Talk to them. Get them to a job center. A library. Help them better their lives. Don't try to preach to them about some God that has never given a shit about them. And don't pay for their next bottle, needle, or hit.

Give a fuck. And pray to whoever that someone gives one about you.

f a k e s n o w i s f a k e

I P O S T T H I N G S L I K E T H I S O N F A C E B O O K

If there is a god he doesn't do as much as we think he does. And every time he sees "christians" bicker among themselves over what he MIGHT have meant, instead of doing something about the issues at hands, he facepalms and runs off to play ...angry birds on his i Phone 7.

I think America's biggest problem is that America looks at things in a big picture as it pertains to their life, or they look at their life specifically. Whether than looking at how their life affects others.

If a couple divorces, that doesn't go to church, it's easy for a church going couple to assume god wasn't a part in their relationship--otherwise there would not have been a divorce.

If a couple goes to church and gets a divorce, then stops going to church, it's assumed that couple has "lost their way" in the lord.

If two buildings are "attacked" by planes, we blame terrorists--not the government who had full control. The whole time. And--just a note--four buildings fell that day. One with NO plane.

We believe what TV,the internet, the news (run by the government), and our preachers, tell us to believe. That's not "faith."

If Americans are poor it's because 1) they're lazy and so we hate them, 2) God decided to give them AIDS, lay them off, send them to war, or some other shitty circumstance, or perhaps 3) God does dictate certain paths in life, in hopes that maybe someday we Americans will wake up, give a fuck and do something about it. Whether it's exploding buildings, or men, women and children sitting outside in the cold wondering who god is and why he hates them.

Romans 8:28 All things work out for good to those who love and trust in God and are called according to his purpose.

Everything's going to be okay, but if it's not okay just then, it's probably your fault and only you can fix it.

So maybe homeless people can get out of their situation. Maybe you can stop dropping f bombs, or watching porn, or gambling, or drinking, or whatever else your flavor of Christianity deems is "wrong." Maybe you can, but it's hard. Maybe it'd be nice if someone tried to help. A lot of someones even. Maybe that homeless man prays every night, and you can't remember when you have.

Or maybe he's happy where he is, burning tiny Gideon Bibiles for warmth. Hoping when he dies he doesn't go to the same Heaven as all the selfish "Christians" who pass him by.

n e w: playing WoW

This is what I look like when I play WoW, feel less depressed, and don't worry about hair or makeup.