#27

1,111 is like eleven eleven
squished together in a nice dainty little package so
that you don't have to worry.
No colons or spaces to get between,
nothing here but you and me.
I'd give up all my 1111 wishes for you,
for your new friends in that far place for
the ones who left
for the ones who can't come back
come back
come back
come back
It's not that hard, they always tell me, move on get over it, move on get over it
but this is my words spilling out of the tar pit in my soul
excuse the typos.
This is me angry
hopeful
sad
hurt
discouraged
disappointed
hopeful
hurt.
There's a fine line between hurt and hope the more you hurt the more you hope
the more you hope, the more you hurt.

Angel Christmas

Christmas comes
Christmas goes
transient as the last seat at the table,
the one filled by hot air and paintbrushes and
memories of a time less painful when the
falling snow didn't remind you of angels
and the clouds didn't remind you of
the far place where you can't be.
I'm jealous that you went because
you don't have to be stuck here anymore,
a lost soul in a cruel fish bowl
with a mirrored side like a funhouse.
Well there's nothing fun about this and
this house is made of
the dreams wasted,
thunderous voices booming insecurities
across the hope torn apart,
turned to shame.
Christmas comes
Christmas goes
like the people who don't have time to say hello,
the ones taken too fast to say goodbye.
You shouldn't be scared or confused when you
leave this near place.
Christmas comes
Christmas goes,
a woven melody that I hear, entwined with the
storms I'm not sure my paper skin can weather anymore.
Yesterday was a good day
because Christmas came
Christmas went,
you went though,
and you haven't come back.

My Reason

I swore off of love poems some time ago

when I decided that they were as mainstream as 

those fake glasses with the thick, dark rims and 

little metal ovals in the corners. 

I mean, I haven't totally gone back on that promise,

but recent events have proved to me that I need to explain something,

the reason for all I do.

So this is my love letter.

My love letter for you. 

It was August 23rd, I remember, that we 

sat down on cold steps that 

were warmed by the smiles across our face and 

out of nowhere, you saw the lock inside my heart 

start to turn at the press of your lips against mine.

I felt it but I didn't say it because to guard your heart is to guard your home and

back then,

I didn't know just how wonderful you are.

I walked down the street in December by myself and 

it was a cold night with glitter spilled on a black canvas and 

the beat of my heart provided the metronome for the 

symphony of the universe around me.

I heard your voice in my head.

You said,

you're a moon rock in my asteroid field, stardust inside my wand.

I replied,

listen here, wave-breaker. I'm not amazing as moon rock or fragile as a speck of dust but thanks for the compliment I guess.

That was months ago and I promised myself back then that 

it would all end, that 

somehow this night would fade and this star would cease to shine.

I'm pretty sure I'm not stupid and I'm not usually wrong about these things,

but you've proved that stars do burn for billions of years

and one beautiful day can last forever.

because one night we stood in your driveway,

not caring that the neighbors were probably watching with bowls of popcorn 

from inside their windows 

while we danced by your car,

my head against your shoulder and my feet entwined with yours.

You found my lock and you found the key 

I carefully hid away so well,

but I didn't care.

That morning in August you were the only one I called 

and you came over with nothing to say and only tears in your eyes.

I hope you know that meant the world to me.

I hope you know that's when I figured out I need you.

Now people ask me what I love about you and I 

don't exactly know what to say.

So, I smile the same smile you have and try to feel you next to me

to spread your aura. 

I say the only words that I can to attempt to spit out the 

tangled emotions and memories that

float inside the faulty safety deposit box in my mind.

"I just do."

I must show it, because somehow, they always smile

too and nod, saying "I understand."

If you live to be a hundred,

I want to be a hundred minus one day,

so I never have to live without you.

If a day should come that we must go,

I'll stand and wait for you up in a tree, and when you 

find me, you'll help me down.

Until that day comes,

I love you,

I love all of you, 

simple,

true.

I hate poems that rhyme,

but you bring it out in me.

You do.

And my reason?

My reason is you. 

Angry, The Sequel.

I'm sick of yelling through caps lock, unable to hear each other over the
din our own screams create so I'll
put it down right here.
I hate the stranger you've become, the way others have changed you,
the way the world has molded you.
I hate the way you fight me like I don't love you, like I didn't trust you,
like I don't want this to work.
I hate the way you blame me when you don't even take a damn second
to see things from my point of view.
I hate the he-said, she-said that got us into this in the first place,
and I hate the fact that it is midnight but I cry
as silently as possible so that
nobody will ask me what's wrong.
I hate that you don't need me and I hate that
I'm replaceable.
I hate that I need you and I hate that you can't
be replaced.
You'll probably judge this hardcore, but this isn't poetry, it's a brain dump.

#26

Well, I thought falling was imperfect,
that there was no way around the lightning splitting trees,
no way to prevent the shatter that inevitably ensues,
only cataracts to look through and
misery-tainted ears to listen through, but
as always I was wrong because
when I fell off of a skyscraper, I can't be sure if you pushed me or if I jumped.
That's beside the point.
When I hit the ground and looked up you were there and
it didn't matter that people were circling around me like paparazzi vultures,
all that mattered was seeing you give me a thumbs up
from the top balcony all
that mattered was your crinkled smile.
If falling is like this all the time then I don't mind splitting in half occasionally because
you'll just grab your keys and go,
drive fast away,
find the duck tape and
piece me together again.

#25

It was a cold, windy, November night when I watched my
demons fly away and my
soul grow roots in the home of another, yet feel
gutsy enough to let the petals go
even though it is not mating sea on.
The night is cold buy your arms and your lips are warm and
all I can think about is how nice it would be to have you sleep
with me,
not that weird way but
the way where I put my head on your chest and fall asleep
to the metronome of your steadily beating drum.
I sick of living in the shadows of my past and
leaving out all the rest,
of making enemies with uncertainty and
friends with animosity.
Raise the stakes or fold,
I go all in.

Explanation to Brutus

The fault, Dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves.
our stars shine so brightly but who knows what they truly are,
a million miles away from this concrete jungle of
fear and tyranny
false hopes and false witnesses who
take an oath upon the court that
they solemnly swear...
I solemnly swear that I have had enough of this fucking nonsense.
I have had enough of the screams that
rip through my mind but never through my ears and mouth.
I've had enough bad luck for five and
I've had enough midnight despair for everybody.
Lay your faults on me like an anchor and keep me at bay.
If you don't the surge from the storm may
swipe me into the nearest Forever 21
where I will be on display for people to buy unaware
of the price of beauty stitched into the fibers of my being,
slavery is sewn into the fabric of our clothes.
I'm creating an anthem.
This one is for the girls who cover their faces with makeup to hide their
souls from the world.
This song is for the boys who think they are men but deep down they are just
infants.
This is for the ones who want to sing but hate the sound of their voice, for the ones who
paint their nails to cover their flaws the one with cracked broken
lips,
the ones who suffer from the nighttime tormenting fits.
This an anthem of dreamers and believers,
of condescending critics and
their peers
for the poets who are told if it doesn't rhyme it's not a poem and
for all of us who have been knocked on our knees just one time to many
This is for the ones who write because their souls need to be fed,
for the ones who sing for their emotional bank to be kept clean
and for the ones who express who they are
each and everyday.
This is an anthem for all of us, for all of us here
who take a stand against normalcy and society,
who think the -ologies have taken it just a little to far.
This is for the spirits that want to burst out and
for the rib cages who keep them in.
I'm talking about an anthem.
Listen to my anthem and let wildflower vines tangle with your bones.
Let their stems clog your veins and let your soul take
over in the grey area where it meets the body.
When the man up there returns back down I hope you're not in a house or
a building or in anything for that matter than
your naked body stripped down of fabric,
the fibers of your being shown to the world because
we are the beautiful ones.
We are the ones they hate because they love,
the ones that get thrown against walls because we break them down,
the ones who feel a need to sit on rooftops and explore the depths of humanity;
Don't let that wildflower die.
Listen to my anthem.
The fault in ourselves, Dear Brutus, is each other's stars.

Tidal Wave

On the high tide of bliss trouble is covered,
covered but the seaweed and life forms and sea shell that have
drifted in to cover up murky bottoms.
I wish my soul had a moon,
my heart could be a moon,
I want some tides in my soul,
but the kind that stays.
I need a high tide,
I need a sunrise,
I need some concealer
to cover up this dark spot and wrinkle.
You see, a smile is just a piece of the tide,
a laugh is just crying without tears and
when I said,
I'm so happy I found you, I meant it because
you make it so the
high tide never goes down.
Maybe that's not healthy.
Maybe I need to see to the sand in order to
dig for the gold which I seek,
but I say,
fuck the ordinary, I want to be extraordinary,
unlike the name implies.
I want to be strong like the waves of a hurricane,
knock me off my feet,
I want to pretend like the last six years didn't actually happen,
and I want to pretend that I can actually express my feelings in cryptic, creative, unusual ways but instead I end up just dumping my brain and dumping my feelings into a box carved into my computer screen, my blinking cursor mocking my pain, my hands are covered with the blood that I lost when you went you left you left you went you're gone and somehow I'm fucking jealous. I'm jealous you're in a place where it's all fucking dandelions and daffodils meanwhile I'm stuck here picking up the pieces of the debris after the storm.
You know how hard it is to smile when people ask how you are?
If  I told the truth I'm sure I'd be locked in a mental ward.
You know how hard it is to watch a grown man cry his eyes out?
You know how hard it is to imagine you could be next?
To know you could be next?
To think that the one you love with your whole heart could be next?
I'm sorry but I really can't go through this again. I really can't go through this again. I really don't have the strength or the courage, or the classical beauty that you say I do to go through with this, to go through this, to make it through this one. I need. Help.

Help me, I'm drowning in a self-induced tide
to cover my motives.

Garden Gnomes

The lust of you breath giver tickled my guitar strings
softly and rang the bell that gave an angel her wings.
I guess I can blame you then for taking away my garden-
weaving sweetheart woman with clip-on earrings and
hand-sewn sweaters.
You breathed too hard, rang the bells, she left, she's
gone, you took her away.
Away on the wings of song, fallen gout of the car door
 onto a black sea of
tar the place where pine needles fall,
fall carefully and silently into your lover's arms.
Swept away on a vein of blinding lights
sirens and chaos, strapped in places like a paraplegic by
men wearing white but far from saints,
working the night shift of the grave yard,
pumping air into your oxygen tank.
You scuba-dived in the great reef and felt the Caribbean tousle your white wispy hair.
In the end, I could tell a garden grew in your soul.
It took roots in your left ventricle, made it's way through your aorta and
the big black splotch they found on the scan was
really just the bloom of some other beautiful God's creation.
You really did it this time.
"It's not miracle grow, just TLC" You'd always say, maybe added with some
Pattington Bear and humming Handel's "Messiah" while picking weeds.
I can honestly say I'm still fucking pissed at the
world
because I don't even know the name of the man who
decided to play
god
and say "Oh well, there's no
hope"
I want to tell him You threw up your hands too soon.
Winter comes after each and every harvest the bloom would die
and spring would come, bring all back to life.
You would have argued with the lab coat,
I know, because you were the one to plant
full shades in full sun and have them flourish,
and your perennials would
still be there long after the snow had created torrents in the front lawn.
You, wind-blower didn't wait long enough,
so I blame
You.
You must be an American because everything about that was so
chop-chop, on the double, obviously she didn't want it that way if six hours later she was still in the boxing ring with no "ding ding" in sight.
A big fucking hello and thank you very much for
making my mom break down in the middle of
CVS while I stammered to make sense to the
manager,
stammered to find words to explain the situation the same stammer I make when people say they're sorry
I don't want your sympathy.
Back to the manager, I think it went a little like "Well um Ma'am no, well, she's not crazy, she's just gonna need some, um, well, uh, TIME, yeah that's what she needs. Time"
Tick tock tick tock
You know we all do.
Some things though,
are simply easier said than
done.

Aye, Matey.

Where have my intentions gone,
gone away lost with the wind of a
wayward soul a
meandering ship captained
by a drunken sailor
screaming for mercy from the depths of his
chirrhosis- scared liver about
salty rum not curing his
insatiable appetite.
Well me neither.
Lately nothing cures a hunger and
greed I have for the clock and
nothing hurts more than hearing the
piercing tick tock
in its mocking tone
as if to say,
"Hey diamond dust, you lose,
I win. This is how it is on this
downward spiral."
Spiral down, spiral down,
on second thought,
It's really more of a 360 foot free fall
with only your nose to
stop you.
Somebody make sense of this
madness of life.

Dear World,

If you look at this blog, please comment on my posts.
I like it.
Lots.

Thank you, world.
Love, Hannah.

Watercolor and Gold

Can these photographs be taken through
watercolor irises?
I forgot my camera at Niagara Falls so I
asked the tour guide whether
the falls would still be there tomorrow.
They shift a little bit each year, he answered,
but they'll still be here tomorrow.
I say who knows.
Who knows if the things we see today are here to stay
like hangliders of coconut trees,
dancers of ladybugs,
Tell me,
what are the skyscrapers of which you speak?
What are these man-made things other than
hunks of metal and glass perceived by
orbs implanted into our craniums
then flipped 360
so we can say wow.
The real beauty is in the man
who stands outside the bar
next door
beard the only clothes his own,
cover his photograph eyes with
a hat of cocaine and heroine
he asks where his albums have gone.
All he has is a broken
moment of peace engrained in
his memory strong
as sapphire, malleable as gold,
What is it that he sees, what we see?
Pain a picture with golden irises, and
nobody can see it.
What's the point of under appreciated art?

#24

Brick house.
Where have you been?
What stories do you keep hidden in your
cement grooves?
Brick house.
How many bodies did you slay today?
How many souls did you break today,
deep at the bottom of the ocean,
How many children cry today?
Brick house.
Why did you do it all?
Brick house.
Why did you burn your bridges?

Violin Lessons

Your rope frays to the sharp discord of
a new violinist,
and birds begin to soar.
You paint your melody
and weave your soul into
science-knitted skies.
Sing for me.
Fall to the end of your frayed
rope and sing
the newborn baby wail
the cheer of the father,
the sigh of the mother
the sneer of the devil.
Grip the knot tightly
and open on up.
Feel the pulse of the blood in your
feet as they flee for higher
ground
feel each nerve fire.
Your hope frays to the sharp discord
of a new violinist,
your hope frays to the sound.

#23

She turned blue as the kiddie pool.
Face down in a vat of
whisky she drowned in
a paisley printed gown
drink drink, drink it down
slowly like a sin
quickly as a verse.
Here comes the bride,
a costume for the chaos inside.

Please Excuse the Appearance

Please excuse our perfectly horrendous appearance at this time.

Let's just say a certain blogger made a series of rash decisions around 1am last night and it resulted in mayhem.

It's getting fixed. Slowly.

#22

She drank away her days 

and slept away her nights.

Lost in a dull daydream, 

she wondered whether 

she was shivering because it was cold,

or else?

Exciting News!

I have an update for anybody out there who is (maybe?) keeping tabs on my blog. (Please, pretty please, tell me SOMEBODY out there reads this.)

It's exciting.

Are you ready?

Drumroll please????




I'm writing another novel!

This time, I promise, it won't be a crappy one that I pounded out right before the deadline was for my English class. Sorry to that certain English teacher if she is reading this. I love the class, not the assignment, heh heh.

Woah, off topic.

So anyway, that little novel thing. Well, the storyboard is done. Characters are described. It's gonna be good. I hope somebody out there is reading this, because I will be posting short little snippets of the novel on the blog. Maybe I can get some feedback? Sweet deal.

So that's the news of the month!
Time for bed. I've rambled long enough.


Vivat Scriptum!
Hannah

Somebody? Anybody?

I wish somebody
would see this blog,
I toil and toil,
sitting on a rot log.

I wish somebody
would see my work,
I toil and toil,
sometimes I eat pork.

I wish somebody
would see me write,
I toil and toil,
and my late night poems sometimes suck.

#21

Stars burn with the sound of a million crushed dreams
fueling the work of hydrogen on fire
quenched their thirst with dragon's blood,
the fairytales are alive.

Simplicity and Grace (The Melancholy Way To Grow Up)

Tinkerbell and beeping sounds,
barbies and action figures,
the simplicity and grace
of a knock-knock joke fills the room with
the sweetness of fresh-baked cookies on a fall day,
of peppermint on a christmas tree,
of binders and backpacks.

Simplicity and grace,
why are you fleeting?
It is in your nature to be transient but still
I ask why.
Simplicity and grace,
where are you going?
It is in your nature to shift but still
I ask why.

"Ping ping"s and nail files,
lip gloss and eye liners,
the simplicity and grace
of a knock-knock joke cannot be heard for
the boldness of age dulls all the little things,
the severity of maturity holds out,
the restless and listless.

Simplicity and grace,
why are you fleeting?
It is in your nature to be transient but still
I ask why.
Simplicity and grace,
where are you going?
It is in your nature to shift but still
I ask why.

Look what I've done, what have I done?
Wished away washed away kissed away,
the knock knock jokes and cookies,
the peppermint and books.
Look what I've done, what have I done?
I wish I could be here to stay but still,
I wish I could be gone to there but still,
I wish I could be here there.

Simplicity and grace,
why have you left me?
It is in your nature to be transient but still
I ask why.
Simplicity and grace,
where have you gone?
It is in your nature to shift but still
I ask why.

I wish I could be here to stay but still,
I wish I could be gone to there but still,
I wish I could be here there.

Simplicity and grace,
can't you come back?
It is your nature to depart but still
I ask why.
Simplicity and grace,
please, just come back?
I never thought I would see
these words scream on ink.

On Growing Up

Around a rust encrusted, paint chipped, downtrodden
old green barn
run quickly in slow motion,
make daisy chains,
catch fireflies.
Fall fast asleep.
Just close your purely innocent, light hearted, unassuming
heavy eyelids
and
sleep fast through bomb droppings,
dream of sugar plumbs.
Never wake up.

Never wake up.
They'll come for you too, do all that they do
they'll keep score.
The battle grounds are blemished; everything's on fire.
The souls of hundreds of thousands
would be could be should be
children.
You would be could be should be
but now
kill the souls of children,
the battle grounds are blemished; everything's on fire.
Come to just keep score in all you do,
you come for them too.
Wake up.

Awake your rust encrusted, paint chipped, downtrodden
heavy eyelids.
Drop your bombs then sleep fast.

Around a purely innocent, light hearted, unassuming
old green barn
run slower and
look at daisies and
watch the lights.
Never wake up.

Never wake up, you drop
bombs on your own bridges.
Don't let your bridges drop bombs on you.

Let the field carry you on a bed of grass to sleep
and child,
Child,
never Wake up.

Clover

I guess I forgive you and
yes, Your point is valid.
Trust is like a tree.
It takes a long time to grow,
one rip of a chain saw to tear down.
Let's just say it doesn't rain often around here and sunlight is scarce.

Good luck.

Still Angry

I trustED you,
you know it's true.
I hate poems that rhyme,
but I'll do it for you.

This blog was for me
I showed it to you
Not for you to comment,
but for you to see true.

I'll change because I love you
not in a weird way, I promise
However it seems,
a divide is upon us.

I trustED you.
You know it's true.
I hate poems that rhyme,
but I'll do it for you.

It's not you I promise
It's all human-kind.
I thought maybe you'd get it:
a rare person to find.

I see now that I was wrong,
I'll go back to being caged.
Nothing you say
will make my rage and hurt assuaged.

I trustED you.

You know it's true.

I hate poems that rhyme,

but I'll do it for you.

Angry, Part 14

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Crying in my room
Because I trusted you. 

Angry, Part 13

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I want to forgive you,
but right now I'd hate to.

Angry, Part 12

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
maybe you have a point,
but you don't understand what I do.

Angry, Part 11

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
This is really passive aggressive.

BUT I DONT CARE.

Angry, Part 10

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
BRB changing my URL
and my "Friends List" too.

Angry, Part 9

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I let you in
You hurt me. You do.

Angry, Part 8

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I won't wash your car,
take a hint: I'm mad at you

Angry, Part 7

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Who cares about structure?
This all is for me, not you.

Angry, Part 6

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I won't respond to your texts,
so read this all, won't you?

Angry Part 5

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Friends say "I understand."
What does that make you?

Angry Part 4

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
But honestly, why did you do that?
I ask, "how could you?"

Angry Part 3

Roses are red
Violets are blue
I didn't really mean it
when I said "Fuck you"

Angry, Part 2

Roses are red,
violets are blue,
I call this structured.
Is it enough for you?

Angry

Roses are red
Violets are blue
I let you read my blog
You were a bitch; fuck you.

On Nautical Adventures

Reach out your dozen-diamonds shimmering
shaking trembling hand and
grasp the place you call home.
My dad told me once, "You can't have everything;
you have to choose."
So I chose the epitome of my tomorrows
with the feeling of today,
the rambling of a small child,
and the sharp knife of a pen on my skin.
I draw on me.
The only reason I want a tattoo is so that
I can forever show the world
I'm goddamn lost and
this ink is my fragile anchor.
This skin is parchment thin and hard as steel,
so good luck putting needles through.
I want to be your parchment thin
fragile anchor.
Actually?
Fuck that.
I want to be anything
to bob with the tides but never sail further
what a miserable poor ship.
Sharper than the drop of the atomic bomb,
loud as a basilisk's fang,
these walls know more than
any of us know.
Keep my secrets.
Hide my woes.
Keep my dreams encrusted in yellow paint.
I remember the first time
my mom
read my poetry written in ink
on my walls.
She said, "Go to sleep...
you need it."
So I replied...
"Don't we all?"
Don't we all?
Don't we al need to be an anchor, a
mooring, a
black night sky stars build on the
blades of grass fireflies ignite,
the bed on which you lie with me.
Lie with me and take walks through
gardens and brimstone
heaven and hell and
when we are done I swear to God I'll
fuck you like a prayer.
I'll be your fucking safety line
anchor
canvas
mooring
chain lock hope key life love girl me
Why?
Locks break too soon.
Ropes fray too fast. Hopes.
I know I should get some sleep,
get over it but still.
You were my anchor and
now I'm drifting about.
The total deaths of a broken
mind spirit soul
is not just one but one million.
What is the value of a human
soul?
Extend your hand and close your eyes.
Get some sleep,
side by side.
If you're the sky, rest easy, I'll be your stars.
If you'll be the walls, sleep tight, I'll be the poems.
Extend your hand and never leave.
It's harder to
end
than it is to start.

A narrative, a poem, or something of utter insignificance

Sometimes I wish I wasn't different.

Sometimes, as I sit alone at lunch I wish that my two
best friends weren't a pen and paper.

Sometimes I wish I could show myself;
come out from behind a curtain,
and allow hundreds of pages to fan out.

Sometimes I wish I could sing so that maybe
who I am could be more beautiful.
I wish I could leave.
Take the key off the shelf and just leave.

Run
Fly
Where somebody could see me.
Really.
Possible?

No.

Tortured?
Yes.

Sometimes I wish I could feel sixteen.

Sometimes I wish I was a firefly.

(Sometimes I wish I was beautiful)

Fireflies.
Nobody has ever once complained about them being
unbeautiful.

The juxtaposition is astounding.

A world of opposites I live.
I breathe.
Sometimes I wish that somebody

anybody(?)

could understand.


do I make myself clear?

White Wall

If I could hang one thing on a
white wall,
it wouldn't be a painting, a photograph,
a memory.

A spiral bound notebook, turned to a
blank page
with a
black pen
hanging along beside it.

I would write. When I walked
backwards,
I would read.
And when it was filled,
I would just be another one of the few thousand years of poets,
weaving a tapestry of sound and beats,

Begin again,
because white is the cheapest
paint color.

The Ocean Isn't The Only Deep Thing Around Here

I'm deeper than I seem.

No, I promise: this isn't just melodramatics. Not another take on Hamlet or Macbeth, but just a coincidental combination of icicles melting, splatting on gravel and pen ink smearing across faint blue lines that my mind calls home. I don't know if this makes sense, no idea where I started, no idea where I will end. I'm lost but I don't care. I'm still but I don't mind. For once I allow myself to feel what has been bogged down underneath Huck Finn's raft and let it out. It's not readable. It's hidden in the ink and then chord structure, the rhythm of the the night, the beat of the dawn. And, just like the day, I continue to burn at both ends...

I'm deeper than I seem.

A Narrative

And so, I let emotions pour out of my head; turn their energy into a sprawling expanse of language and letters, felt the pen meld with my mind as I made friends with uncertainty and loquaciousness, imagined how it would be upon a star.
With that, I let the clouded new moon shine onto my windowsill, inviting me to sit for a while and discuss the transient quality of the sweet, silent rose, the brevity of words when so many are needed; all the while I dusted off the fatigue-enshrouded library that fills my mind.
Why? He said when I described my issue- this issue of penmanship, a love for words so deep that my pen becomes a knife, a saber, a sword, cutting my soul into small bits, finding the dwellings underneath, but stitching together a world of entirely new making; words come faster and faster, too quickly for just a pen in hand and somehow, I get buried blissfully underneath syllables and ideas and ink smears and possibilities until I realize suddenly, I'm not breathing air. I'm breathing life.

#20

So tell me,
do you think the world would spin faster,
if we stayed here,
happily ever after?
Can't you see me waiting here?
Is it me you want forever?

Save me from this haunting daylight.
The ghosts- they come to fight.

A

If the sun rises on one side of the world, it sets on the other.
So tell me this.
In our own lives,
if a sun sets,
doesn't it still have to be there,
coming up on the other side?

#19

I want to be free of mental
chains of silly string
of child's play of
shaking sinistry of
myself.
To lose is not so bad
when you lose
something
you will not miss

#18

The rain pounds on the sidewalk,

my heart pounds with it,

like a beating drum in

South Africa,

and a butterfly flaps it's wings,

flying by the drummers and singers,

going north to unrest and to

all the violence,

and then the butterfly will settle down in a bed and

make love to a squirell and

they will have babies in a tree,

then the squirell will go to Europe,

tour the Eiffell tower,

and make love to a lady bug,

they have babies on a flower,

then the lady bug will go to China,

see the Great Wall,

make love to a silk worm,

they have babies wherever little silk worms go.

#17

Wearing green,

two by two,

line.

laughing, walking, talking.

Wearing grey,

one by me,

last.

looking through the glass.

Laughing not feeling,

walking not being,

talking not hearing.

Keep Breathing; Keep Humming

She said,
the stars are a perfect example of
the completeness of infinity
as she gazed upwards
, a dark car in daylight.

I guess she makes sense unless
you think of stars as projections
of some far off form of
combustion or God playing
with matches and candles.

So one day, I sat down
at noon
against a warm oak tree and
looked at the stars through a crowded room.

They sang like millions of filled notebooks,
they wept like millions of battle torn mothers,
they were the millions of poets
just trying to find a voice in
this
completeness of infinity we call home.

Shine so bright but nobody will see
you.
Be so beautiful that nobody will care.
Shine so bright, nobody can see you.
Nobody cares.

Nobody cares about the millions of poets
with their notebooks made of flesh, the ink of blood.
Nobody cares because they died
seven years ago and the light
is just reaching us now.

Be so beautiful you get overlooked,
Do so good you don't matter,
These stars have a lot to say if
you'd only listen to the
hum.
HUM.

The completeness fo infinity.
F   E   W of us bother to stop to
see
and even fear stop to
feel.

It must be a form of poetry and it must rise
and fall with the moonlight tides
because
it seems at midnight the world is so
lost, lost in the infinity of my own making.

Keep breathing;
let your d e a d star shine
let it shine let it shine
make those forget to breathe;
we all have different reasons for forgetting to breathe.

Happy 100th Post Day, Blog.

I normally don't do these non-poem posts, but this one had to be special.

HAPPY 100TH POST BLOG.

For this post, I'd like to think about how this blog has changed me.
I've always said It just doesn't take much to change a person. And that's true. It really doesn't take much at all. One little comment, one little smile, a phone call... all of those can change somebody's life. Well, this blog hasn't just changed me as a person; it has changed my life.
100 posts ago, armed with just a dozen filled notebooks, pens dry out of ink, and trembling fingers, I opened myself up to so much more than I ever have before. My innermost thoughts were on display for the entire internet. Sure, they wouldn't know who I was; maybe nobody would even see it. But, for me, it was a huge step in letting myself go.
This blog has taught me so much more than just how to improve my writing. It has taught me that it's okay to be who I am. I'm different. I know. Between cancer, caring more about school than parties, and liking just to be alone, I guess I'm your regular high school "freak." Whatever. None of that matters. This blog taught me that I don't have to hide behind my curly hair and notebooks. Sure, I'm not ready yet to scream my poems from rooftops like Andrea Gibson or get up in front of hundreds of people like Anis Mojgani, but hey. It's a start.
I'm posting to Facebook, finally declaring myself a poet, and breaking the news to my parents that hey Mom, Dad, maybe I don't want to be a doctor. Maybe I just want to write books. For the first time ever, I'm okay with that. 


So Happy 100th Post Day, Blog. So yeah, you needed me to write in you to get you to where you are today, but I've needed you more than you know. And, as always, you, my dear writing, have never failed me.

#16

As the rain beats down on my
windowsill I wonder if you are out
there.
I wonder if among this chaos of
life and death whether or not you are
happy.

I hope the sun is shining where you are.
I hope that you are shining and never
having to even think of the word

cancer

ever again.

I hope that you are happy.
I hope that you are happy.
And,
if in your spare time,
you think of
m e,
I guess that's okay too.

Crusade

Make this more than just another
day that sits heavy on us all, make
this more than just another shoreline
battered and beaten by the sea.

Let us rise above the events that
make us and
may the rest of us
define our situation.

Make this more than just another
star-sprinkled night, make
this more than just another 5am sunrise
spilling quickly over calm waters.

Let us rise above the events that
make us and
may the rest of us
define our situation.

All we are,
all we are,
just steel-toed combat boots
with worn-leather laces.
Splattered with mud,
head down.
fight your own damn battle.

#15

Splatter color on your hands so the
prints
reflect who you are.
Press your thumbs into my cheek
and leave a
mark on my heart.
If I had a penny for every moment
I wished to be you
I would be a fucking millionaire.

Irony

The sunny mornings are given to the cynics,
the clouds to the optimists,
half and half to the realists,
and dew to the dead.

Bright flowers are given to the cynics,
the blight to the optimists,
half and half to the realists,
and potatoes to the dead.

A guitar's sing is given to the cynics,
sharp discord to the optimists,
half and half to the realists,
and a symphony to the dead.

We all have r e a s o n s for who we a r e.

#14

If you always walk with your head held down,
always staring at concrete angels with beauty passing by,
when will that beauty fade to black?
and when will that beauty fade to black?
If beauty is a perception,
and nobody perceives,
when will beauty fade to black?

#13

If silence is louder than
gunshots
and looks are more piercing than
bullets,
then suck your god damn bullet
back into your gun
before somebody gets
k i l l e d
for real.

For once.

#12

If sea waves crash down
and wash out golden irises, please tell
me how on Earth blue nail polish
should cease to chip
and breadcrumbs cease to
fall and hearts
cease to break.
When love doesn't prevail, when the
oceans recede, when golden
irises rise up from the dust be
sure to grab
your coat as you leave behind because,
everybody knows
that to protect your heart
is to protect you home.

Name Game

When I was in the kindergarten,
my teacher asked me who I was.
I said, "I don't know."
Hannah.
This memory is fresh and bold in my mind the
way
that the first snowfall stands out
on the trees;
the way the chickadee cries
at dawn; the
way that the stars graze my golden cheeks
in the sunlight.
The flower that blooms in
the pit of my despair
blooms upon my countenance,
a clever masquerade
who I am.
who I am
Who am I.

Nothing seems so pure or quick than
the soft ticking of a wrist watch
as gentle drops of
moonlight weave her fingers
through my hair, spring
my curls,
my friend.
Nothing seems so true and real
than the
songs and hollers,
whoops and cries of the
crickets in the night as they
weave their melodies of kryptonite and bonfire.
Music runs through my mind as I listen to their voices,
every cell.
every note.

The hum of the universe mingles with
my thoughts,
an interrupted and violent whirlpool of
memories and facts,
could-haves and would-haves,
long division and multiplication,
(insignificant)
makes me placid
HUM there, on
and on.

They never hear the crickets.
They never see the drops of moonlight fall on black pavement.
They never feel a hum deep in their bones.
What I would do to lend you my glasses,
my ears,
my soul,
lending isn't feeling or experiencing
listening is only hearing when
you don't hear your own heartbeat
connected by an invisible string
to everything.

And so she asked,
"Who are you."
I don't know. She
never gave me a chance to
paint my canvas in more than
black and white; of
crickets and music notes, and
moonlight that
irrevocably
unchangeably,
what lies in you lies in me
what lies in me lies in you
But don't change any names just yet.

#11

When tears plummet from the
skies like it's never going to.
End.
and when rain drips from your
eyes like it's the ______First you've been
h u r t,
it's clear to the soul:
practicing ice and
beauty yields jealousy
that
creates cracks in our bones
and if
she imagines, all the things that everything could be,
the
world
could
do
the
same.

#10

At five years old, I told my mother I felt strange.
She replied, ever caring with, "What, sweetie?"
If I had a vocabulary ten years wiser I would have told her it was like a freight train full of unicorns crashed inside my soul and they couldn't figure out how to escape the overturned boxcar of rainbows.

#9

Tame your quiet rage
with a silent roar and
the vibration of a guitar string.
Let it all go into oblivion and let the light shine but,
windows at sunrise,
So I've found,
tend to not be as transparent as normal.
With light stinging so bright,
reflect back your secrets,
stun your foes,
windows are a lot like people.

Dark Blue

Screaming doesn't always do justice to feelings 

and sometimes they are all too strong,

too fast,

too incredible for words. 

To smash a keyboard seems more justified, 

to jump out a window with a parachute upside down backwards topless whathaveyou.

I want to feel.

I want to feel the rush of blood from the waves of 

millions of poets pumping and pushing making me breathe

crashing down in my soul.

I want to feel the distant hours tick away knowing that maybe today is the day.

Today is the day, 

I said as the symphony played on.

What do you expect from me? 

What do you expect from me?

It's been 370 days, but not that I'm counting.

Nothing is here but dark blue,

dark blue that 

keeps my curtains alive tell me now why

the pot isn't allowed to call the petal black tell me why

things go too soon

tell me why everybody says to move on when

still,

my heart aches my bones shake my mind spins and 

still, 

I think of that day like it was this morning at 

9 am I got the call, a train crashed into 

a bright blue ocean the ocean the ocean the ocean 

of a dark blue bottom. 

Where the octopus lives that's where I'll dwell

come visit sometime if you dare come see the depths of my soul

but pass a test. 

pass a test. 

370 days ago I learned to live

I learned to die 

an equilibrium equation for lifedeathinbetween

Thank you very much but I think I'll play russian roulette with my 

pens and ink and maybe a few paper cuts but I promise I'm not a cutter 

cutter 

cut her deep to the bone. 

370 370 370

Get over it. 

Get over the sea of dark blue that seems to touch and go, skip over words

Get over the sea of dark blue that likes to replace red blood,

call me a freak I call myself hurt. 

Manny?

Hello blogging world and poets that know me personally.

Yes. It is still me. "Manny" probably just followed all of you, and that's a.o.k. Promise. It's just me. Long story short, I needed to switch a few things around. All is well :)

PS. or it is KL? I don't know guys. But that new follower? Don't get too excited. It's just me.

The Fifth Year Is The Hardest

"Five years ago feels like yesterday,"I said with a bittersweet smile enshrouding my eyes, covering my face with glistening sparkles of light. I would like very much to take every pair of reflective sunglasses from the clearance rack at my neighborhood wal-mart because I sure as hell can't seem to keep anybody out but I guess that's poetry. I guess that's poetry that runs through my veins, my life blood, you keep my heart beating
thump thump
thump thump
I guess that's poetry when your brain rambles so fast you mistake pillow for marshmallow so I'll take some creative license. I guess it's poetry the scrawled lines of misshapen pleas written in bold, black paint
Why will it never dry?
I guess that five years ago was poetry when we talked on the phone for hours, well actually it was sobbing, but when words fail to speak raw emotion does, I know better than anybody:
It's the moon that does the dancing, and
tears? Well they are just waterfalls from inside of our souls.
Five years ago you had a beautiful soul and now all I see when I search your name are birthdays and anniversaries and births but never that one thing that meant the most to me five years ago, my five year old poem of death.
Five years ago is the reason black paint is always in short supply in my house. I still remember when mom walked into my room, saw me with a paintbrush and said, You've killed the walls.
Five years ago felt more like a bird so I said, The walls killed me.

Five years ago killed me not you. Not you. I saw the walls close in, so I busted down the flimsy stone and strong glass with words and thoughts and a stroke of black paint did it. It did it like you held her in your lap  and taught her how to count. Patiently, quietly, but with a determination of a few thousand birds,

flying south for the winter.

Five years ago, I come back home.