It’s all just so screwed up.
Why is it possible for such a good,
Fucking day to become so destitute
Within a matter of moments,
Turning everything pretty into
Dirty cardboard boxes and
Lips that continue to speak,
Lying with every syllable,
Twisting the truth beneath satin sheets until
It is completely and utterly unrecognizable?

Whose bright idea was this…
To tell people what you feel,
Hoping that some form of understanding
Might rear its bitterly shorn head,
Shaking hands with smiling strangers
And kissing babies with runny noses,
Only to walk away with silence
Screaming within your head,
Crying out to anyone… everyone… to save you,
While stuffing their ears with pink tissues.

Angela Ash has lived in Louisville her entire life. She comes from a long line of slightly insane, although extremely brilliant people.  She wrote her first poem when she was five years old on the inside cover of an encyclopedia, while she was sitting in a corner in “time out” seclusion.