A Silhouette |A Poem

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I can’t seem to recognise you anymore.
A silhouette, way out of my reach.
A clouded stream of thoughts, a haze, an unconscious state of mind.
You twist my insides.

You and your vanity,
You and your soft, silk dreams.
I am like sandpaper, raspy and rough.
I scratched your skin at every touch.

Is that why you ran?
Couldn’t handle my awareness of every move you made,
The nights you slept, I watched over you.
The days we spent apart, my body screamed for contact.

You walked out,
You said goodbye.
Leaving me behind, now closed doors are all I see.

This is not how it was supposed to be.-H

Questions

412H

All my life I’ve seen poetry as a way to spell out the dark and twisted reality.
I could never really write any thing that was “happy”
All dull and gloomy was my expertise.

When they’d ask me to write about something as simple as the sun.
Others would take it as a metaphor for good times, you know how the light washes away the pain, and all that stuff.

Then there would be me and I would step up on that stage, saying how the heat had burnt my skin, boiling my blood making my weakness cave in on me.

The light, oh the light had blinded me throwing me into a fit of unwanted emotions, they would swarm under my gaze.
I would see myself as hollow, yet still my figure would absorb no light.
At this point happy was just not expected of me. They’d all just given up on me.

And these days inspiration is running dry, I don’t know what to say, I have nothing to write. And believe me I want to, I want put everything I have into it, I want them to feel something, anything at all. But it just isn’t working, is this what having writers block is like?

I wouldn’t know that, it’s always been easy for me. Writing, all I had to do was think, whether it was a memory I brought back or something I made up, it would flow from my finger tips smoothly landing on the paper as if it belonged there. But now it’s just empty. And I’m afraid, what if there’s nothing left to say. Is this the end?

I know what I need, but I don’t know how I’ll get there. So that’s kinda it for now. I’m lost and I need to get out there and do something with my life, I need to stop swimming around in this pool of sadness I’ve thrown myself into. But it’s almost easy to just sit here in a corner and watch the world spin, people will pass me by and I’ll be stuck. Why doesn’t the thought of remaining in a hole dug by my own hands scare me?-H

We Are Not The Same

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You are clinging to me, your fingernails digging into my flesh. Or more so you are clawing your way into the arms of hope, thinking that they will wrap around your body in an instant. Protecting you from the perception of evil your mind has created, providing the meaningless with profound meaning, giving you some faint sense of direction.

You walk this Earth with fear running in your veins, picking and prodding its way into your heart and every hemisphere of your brain. You are corrupted in every form and you are too far gone.

And though you might be made with dark thoughts and sweaty palms, ruled by emotions you cannot quite explain. I am hard as rock. Empathy does not have an empty space in my heart.

Because to me you are another soul in need of a savior, a boat lost in the sea. But I am not the shore, truth be told I am just as lost as you. But we are nowhere near the same. You look for a home in shards of glass that lay cracked around your feet, I am smart enough to know what is sharp will make you bleed.-H

Parts Of Us

​Grey skies, black clouds they seem to cover up my world these days but then there’s always the occasional rays of sunlight breaking through the atmosphere here and there.
So don’t worry its not all just gloomy. It’s like the quotes you read on tumblr, you know “not everything is perfect” and all that stuff. It’s like that, some days it’s dark and unpleasant, ravishing. Just dark.
And those days I like to sit back and close my eyes, those days are the ones in which I choose to hit “play”. And then they play, moving forward from the various holes in my mind it’s like watching a movie, only better.
Because it’s us. I watch us from our sweet, innocent beginning mellowing into the tragically inevitable ending.
But it’s the middle where I find my peace, those dark days seem to fade away, blue eyes staring into mine.Quiet nights, I would play the piano and God knows I was horrendous. But you closed your eyes and swayed to the screwed up melodies I played.

We were inseparable, super hero’s of our own comic books. Living our own little fantasy embedded into the very ends of our heads. But how long could we avoid reality. Soon all of it cought up with us, life took a heavy toll on us.
Don’t get me wrong, he still loved me, I still love him but we were no longer in love.
And now there are parts of us scattered across the Earth, some in New York where he sits in a two bedroom apartment trying to focus on the canvas before him. And the rest is in my heart where it shall stay for as long as I choose to keep it, to keep him. -H

He Was Art..

One day he told me he was dying, and it wasn’t cancer caused by the cigarettes we smoked out back in his yard. It wasn’t a disease he caught from when he spent to much time at his Grandpa’s place in that weird old town. 

He told me it was his brain, he told me it was bleeding, bleeding creativity. He told me he was dying, or at least the artist inside if him was. He told me that at this point he was gone. 
But I said that there had to be a cure, surely this couldn’t be the end. But his art was his cure, and he could feel it seeping through his viens, and out of his body. He could feel his soul drifting, his eyes like holes, agape. 

And I knew where all of it was going, it was now inside of me. His laughter, his amusement, the way he would move his hands, flailing them around and up into the air. His energy had danced it’s way into my heart and now he was worn out.

Because I took everything, everything but his sickness. A sickness that now lived within him.

 His art was gone. He wasn’t the same boy I met at a bus stop late at night. And I was kinda high but I told him I thought he was cute and his haircut was sorta funny. He laughed it off and the very next day he was sat at a barber’s shop.
And I could feel my eyes burn when they would conjure up those painful tears I deserved. 

I made him feel like he had lost it, when all along he was it. 
He was art when the whole room looked at him in awe, the way he would move his feet, that birth mark on his chin, right below his lower lip. The way he would slide his arm around my waist, and that winking of his that looked more like blinking but I didn’t fight him on it. 

And he was still art when his hair had grown down to his shoulders, when no one would bat him an eye, he was still art when he sat in his apartment late at night, he was still art when he couldn’t sleep, he was still art when he spilled his tea, his hands couldn’t stop shaking. He was still art to me.

The artist in him was still alive, because art can never truly die. H

Friends |Story Time 


Hey guys, so I thought we could do a story today, since my brain just doesn’t feel like cooperating with me and that no matter what I write it just ends up as a bunch of words thrown together at once, or like someone jumbled up the alphabet and squished it into a paragraph.

So we’re gonna have to do with this for now.

You know those sayings about people walking into your life and walking out. Or how they were never “meant” to stay. Well I met a person like this once, she wasn’t ordinary and she was so much more than just special.

She was one of those people who are so excruciatingly intoxicating that being in their very presence would drive you nuts.

It started in an English class where my teacher liked my poetry so much that she decided that she needed to read it out to the class, after finding out that I couldn’t stop her I asked her to just say that the person who wrote it wants to stay anonymous, and by the grace of God she agreed. (Trust me my English teacher was hella stubborn)

And so she read out the poem and people seemed to love it, they looked around the class thinking of who had written it and none of them had the slightest of idea that I was the one behind it. I mean why would they? I was the girl who stuck by a small close group of friends and was famous for playing the most absurd of pranks on everyone.
But while they were all looking toward the quietest girl of the class, because it’s obvious right? It has to be the quiet shy one at the back, she has to be the one who writes the sad poetry. This one girl who sat in the same seat all year, the girl who had way to many boyfriends and a really good accent, she turned around, she didn’t say anything but she nodded at me. Which was enough to let me know that she got it.

And so what once was a backward glance and a slight nod in a classroom full of teenagers soon turned into a friendship. That only lasted for three months (pretty shitty I know).
But after spending three months by her side I realised that knowing someone’s favourite band or favourite movie doesn’t mean you know them, it just means you know a part of them, a very very small part of them.

I thought I knew her inside and out but all I really knew was that she liked to smoke, a lot. Her dad would give her drum lessons in their basement after school, and she wanted to be a model. But that’s pretty much it.
She was one of those people who don’t just admire from afar, no she wanted to be a part of it. My world, not that it was as exciting as it seemed. The thing was that I took her as someone who was there to stay, turned out she was just passing by.

But her short presence in my boring life taught me something. I stuck by her side because she made me feel special, she was one of those people who weren’t afraid of life, so when she got suspended from school one day, she didn’t sit home feeling bad. She spray painted all the walls in the girls toilet.
She would jump at the smallest mention of adventure, and she would never back out once she was in.

But that didn’t mean I knew her. Because knowing someone means sitting by them and rubbing their back when tears flow from their eyes.
Knowing someone means not only being there in the high, but holding hands when it starts to get low.

We never talked, we were never truly there. It was more like a version of my self was left at home when I was with her, I could never truly be myself.
And that’s just not right, is it?

And so no matter how much this girl and the mystery she was intrigued me, I distanced myself from her. And we went from cracking lame jokes at 3:00 am to just a “hi” or “hello” when we passed by eachother in the hallway.
And the worst part was that she didn’t notice.

I guess the moral of this story is that people will walk into your life in the craziest of ways, and you might think that it’s fate. Because they like your favourite band or because you both like the same color it doesn’t make you soulmates, it just makes you two people with similar tastes.

Remember to stick by those who value you, respect you, treat you like a human being but most of all know you. Not just certain parts of you, the whole you. The people who are there on your worst nights all the way to your best days, the people who you can talk to without being afraid. The ones that will not only give you a hand when you’re down, but a hug and an arm to keep you up.

I guess that’s it for now. I hope you guys enjoyed and I know that this was painfully long but it was kinda all I could come up with.
I do however promise to come back with a better and stronger post next time.-H

Pain Is Not Beauty

“Pain is beauty”

I’m pretty sure whoever said that has either never felt pain, or just never seen beauty.

Because pain is not being able to look into someone else’s eyes afraid that they might see what you hide.
Pain is sitting on your bathroom floor at 2:00 am thinking how worthless you are.
Pain is not having your chin resting upon someone’s shoulder as you bury yourself in their warmth, pain is not having anyone there to hug you when you’re sad and the tears just won’t stop.

Pain is not anything like beauty, pain is treacherous, pain is having a fist hit you in the chest so hard that it comes out through the other side of your back. Pain is going from lovers to strangers, pain is seeing him with her.
Pain is not being able to go near the weighing machine, afraid you might just break it.

Beauty is nothing like pain, beauty is exceptional, beauty is the way her cheeks turn pink when she talks to him, beauty is the feeling of her mother’s necklace touching her skin bringing back memories of childhood and mischief.
Beauty is the box of chocolates he left on your doorstep because he screwed up last night.
Beauty is the way her eyes light up when she talks about her dreams and all that comes in between.

Beauty and pain can never be alike, because beauty and pain play different roles in different parts of our lives.
Pain teaches us to survive in the hardest of times and beauty, beauty shows us the aftermath of our struggle, and it’s always worth it. -H

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The World is Ours

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They lied when they said “The world is yours”. It isn’t, the world is not mine and neither is it yours.

I don’t know about you but the world I live in does not belong to me. It belongs to politicians, it belongs to Donald Trump. It belongs to judges and lawyers that can be paid off to do great injustice in the cruelest of ways. It belongs to those who hold heavy bucks in their hands, they own the world.

The world belongs to business men and Political parties. It belongs to police men who seem to be blinded when the wealthy break the rules, or maybe their mouths are too full of 100 dollar bills, they can’t even speak.

My world is not blue, for blue is the color of the sky, the sea. And my world can never match that beauty.
My world is not grey, no that’s just the smoke that fills my lungs.
My world is not red, that is the color of all the innocent blood splattered across walls and floors, the blood of the poor. Because they couldn’t afford a trip to the hospital, but no one cares right? I just want my manicure done on time.

And my world can never be black, because that’s the color a man’s worth is based off of. The color that determines whether you’re a saint or a sinner. The color because of which it seems alright to discriminate someone. Because they’re black. And that’s just not right, yeah.

My world can never match the colors of a rainbow because that’s something you need to hide. It doesn’t matter if you’re born that way or if you want to be with whoever makes your heart beat, we said it’s wrong so you can’t make it right. This world belongs to society. And opinions, words that are wrongly shaped and actions that inflict pain.

The world is not yours or mine, it is not theirs, it is ours. So why don’t we join hands, why don’t we become better lawyers, better judges. Why don’t we look past money and what it can buy, why don’t we look at what it can’t buy?

Why don’t we break barriers and mix all the colors together, the blue and white and black and yellow, let’s make our own rainbow. And let’s teach them that we’re better than this, let’s stand together for once let’s built this world up rather than look for one of our own, we have sunlight, we have stars and a solar system, we have skyscrapers and we have airplanes.

Why don’t we have equality? Why don’t we respect? Why don’t we have justice?
Why don’t we have courage? -H

In-Between

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I was weak, so you played God and pulled my strings. A puppet, merely an object with no value whatsoever.
You stood by me not to watch me succeed and reach new heights, you stood by me waiting for me to fail. So you could once again tower over me, making me shrink to less and less untill I was nothing. Exactly what you wanted me to be.

You see I was never one to have faith in myself. I couldn’t stand tall or smile wide and bright. And it didn’t help my already beaten up hopes when you came along and told me that I wasn’t good enough. You didn’t say it, but when I asked you ” Do you think I can make it” you bit your lip, shook your head and walked away.

Everything is not ment to be” I said. Because I was a robot, following orders, I was no human. You told me that I didn’t believe in love, I was just looking for someone to save me. Push me away from the track I was tied to, the life I was living. I didn’t need morning kisses and goodbye hugs, I needed release. I needed to forget. I needed someone who would save me.

But those were your words, you pushed them into my mouth and then you expected me to say them. But I refused to speak.
Instead I picked up a pen and I wrote the fucking truth. And with every word that landed flawlessly on the paper I felt my heart beating faster. With every line every sentence was a string of emotion, watch that emotion flow from my hand to yours, through your eyes you will see, and in your heart you will feel.

For now I felt alive, I felt the blood run through my veins, I felt the ground beneath my feet and the sky above my head. Here I was somewhere in between, I found my place, it wasn’t the sun or the sea. I didn’t belong with the stars held up in space. I was the one who was falling. A falling star, travelling through time and space. They wished upon me. They looked at me like I was a dream come true.

Maybe I was, maybe I still am. -H

Who Is He? |A Poem

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I got the news today,
They said I’d be getting a new roommate.
They said he’d be here in an hour.
I wonder who it is?
I wonder why they chose me?

There is a soft knock on my door,
Is it him?
He walks in and my breath hitches.
It’s him, the boy with poetry in his eyes.

I want to ask him,
Do you write?
Are you like me?
But I just stare at him.

His skin looks so soft,
His hair, brown matching his eyes.
I wonder what it would be like,
Running my hands through it.
My fingers getting cought in his curls.

Him, this boy,
He is the feeling I get when I walk into a used bookstore.
Everything is old, yet it’s still new to me. Enchanting.
In his presence I forget how to write.
My little red notebook, a blank page taunts me,
as it sits in my lap, not a single word,
not even a drop of ink escapes from the tip of my pen.

He reminds me of pretty pink roses,
Perfume and ice cream on a sunny day.
Erasing my memories of funerals,
Death and decay.

He is a coffee stain on the surface of my brain.
He is a color I cannot explain.
He is complicated in every way,
Yet everything about him is so simple, plain.
He is driving me insane,

He is also keeping me in my right mind.
Who is he?
And what does he hide?-H