Aspen Writes Poetry

I polish my name like silver,   shine it in the mirror,   tilt it so the light catches—   see how it gleams,   how it reflects back at me.   I sell the story of myself   in a hundred glossy lines,   each one a promise,   each one a soft whisper:   “Look, I’m here.   I’m worth the watch.”   But behind the mirror,   the silence holds its breath.   It knows the cost of showing up—   the emptiness when the crowd’s gone,   the echo of my own name,   repeated like a prayer   I’ve learned to say.

They move in without asking—   the ex, the argument,   that song you can’t remember   but hum anyway.   They lounge on your couch,   feet on the coffee table,   leave crumbs of memory   everywhere.   The brands love it.   Their logos squat   in the corners of your mind,   whisper promises   you didn’t ask to hear.   Coca-Cola in your daydreams,   Nike lacing up your anxieties.   You should charge, really.   Invoice the thoughts   for their corporate tenancy—   billboards in your sleep,   ads stitched into your fears.   Your mind’s a skyscraper,   and everyone but you   owns a floor.   But the rent would come in slogans.   “Live Your Best Life.”   “Have It Your Way.”   Nothing you can spend,   just more noise to fill   the spaces they leave   when they finally move out.

In the endless scroll of online arguments, one might hope to find the seeds of progress: the exchange of ideas, the gradual softening of rigid minds, the faint spark of understanding. And yet, more often than not, what we find instead is noise—an inferno of outrage that consumes everything in its path.   The debates about Trump, the MAGA agenda, the Supreme Court’s rulings, or Keir Starmer’s every calculated move are not without value. A well-placed argument can shift a perspective, plant a doubt, even inspire change. But this potential is drowned in the ceaseless flood of tribalism and spectacle.   Each post, each tweet, each comment becomes less about truth and more about performance. We are no longer speaking to each other but past each other, shouting into the void while the algorithms fan the flames. The platforms thrive on division, on engagement at any cost. Every insult, every half-truth, every oversimplified argument is another log thrown onto the fire.   This fi...

  We built a bridge once,     didn’t we? Each plank laid   with shaking hands,   each nail driven in   with hope as the hammer.   It was rough, splintered,   but it held.   Now, splinters fly.   They tear it apart, board by board,   tossing them into the river.   The current eats them,   takes them down   where light can’t reach.   Don’t you see?   The child at the edge of the bank,   their reflection rippled,   already uncertain—   you’ve given them nothing   but stones to carry   and nowhere safe to cross.   We built a door once,   didn’t we? A heavy thing,   but we opened it,   propped it wide with our bodies,   our words, our love.   They are closing it now.   Slamming it shut with laws,   with lies,   ...

 Nice™  Soft. Safe. Unoffensive. Unforgettable? Why say brilliant when you can say nice?  Why risk bold when you could just... be nice? For centuries, nice has been the go-to word for dinner with your in-laws, art you don’t understand, or a haircut that’s definitely not what they asked for. It’s vague. It’s vanilla.  It’s the verbal nod of polite society. Whether you're avoiding conflict or just can't commit to an opinion, Nice™ is here to help. “Very” Tired of subtlety? Say it louder. Say it clearer. Say it very. Whether you’re very excited, very scared, or very, very late, this classic intensifier adds a familiar punch to your everyday sentences. It’s simple. It's safe. It's everywhere. Very — because why use one word, when you can use two? (Disclaimer: May cause dilution of expression. Side effects include vagueness and the urge to rewrite.). Some of my pet peeve words as a writer writing poetry in a poem. Wow that's complicated to say. Say that ten times fast....

My dog has been spayed and now has a seemingly new personality. I wonder if it'll wear off as she heals.  She lets us wrap her now—   a blanket over her back   like a small, warm hush.   She stays still. Doesn't grumble.   No twitch of tail. No side-eye sigh.   Just silence.   Before, she was spring—   all teeth and velvet refusal,   the blanket flung off like insult.   A queen in fur, unbothered.   Now, she melts into it.   Heavy with sleep,   stitched at the belly,   quieted.   We whisper her name—Doris—   like something holy.   She lifts one ear, half-hearted.   Lets it fall again.   The world is slower now.   Even the stairs wait for her.   And we, too, wait,   watching the rise of her breath   beneath the soft fabric   she used to hate.   Ou...

 Hello,  I have been focusing my efforts on creating a mailing list for substack for paid subscribers and free subscribers, I feel that this way most of my writing will be received by those who want to receive it and my activism will reach new heights. It will also allow for me to spend more time on my activism as currently I am juggling many things.  Here is  the welcome substack  If for some reason you do not do email or substack, different work will still be available here just less frequently.  Thanks, Aspen Greenwood 

Disability Reform  They come in suits, hands clean, tongues heavy with “reform.” They do not see the tremor of a mother’s hand as she opens the brown envelope. They do not hear the silence after a child is told: you are too expensive to educate past nineteen. This is not care. This is arithmetic. This is a ledger where names are numbers, needs are noise, and dignity is a column to be deleted. They talk of fairness while snipping the threads that held us together— threads spun from routine, from rights, from the quiet heroism of just getting through the day. First, they came for the benefits. Then, the rights. Now, they come for the story itself— rewriting it so the disabled child becomes a burden, the parent a problem, and the state a benevolent blade. A child must ask permission to move, to learn, to breathe freely in a school where they might be safe. And what is that, if not control? What is that, if not a polite word for a polished cage? They call this compassion. I call it cru...