World Mental Health Day/ A Poem

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We’re holding on as tightly as we can.
Fingers gripping on to feeble articles of meaning,
Trying to ground ourselves within this mess of this spinning globe we call The Earth. Continue reading

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My Eighth Grade French Teacher

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My eighth grade French teacher smoked cigarettes out back near the football field every morning. Heaving in heavy breaths he’d cough like his throat was on fire, fumes in his lungs. He drank like the skies inside his eyes had fallen, clouds of silver smoke on his lashes would linger until they looked more like fragile tears wiped by trembling thumbs before brought into account by the twenty students who wanted more than anything to leave the classroom they were stuck in.

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The Weight Of My Youth

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Wrap me up in polythene plastic. Saran wrap around my lungs, and I do this to myself too often.
Build cages of fractured bones and punctured skin, music to my ears the flattening of thoughts that burn up in my head. I could let my youth take the blame, the hollow timeframe of adolescence carrying the weight of every reckless choice I had made. From fifteen to eighteen, regret built a home inside my skull, a parasite I could not rid my body off. I’m still trying, trying to fight it.

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Plastic Philosophies

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Grains of salt sit at my feet, thoughts that go beyond my reach. I often find myself captivated between plastic philosophies and diamond decorated lies. This life is nothing more than a mere picture on a screen, reflecting the things we wish to seek and those we die trying to grasp. As our timelines are stained by mistakes that we scramble to disguise. I learnt today that women are still sold upon shelves in warehouses, shipped in boxes cloaked with wine, futures sealed in fingers that grip their thighs and eyes that are drained of fires replaced with stone cold hands that make sure those voices are never heard as their bodies burn in emotions that can never be understood.

This world is nothing more than an ugly mirror on the ground, pieced in and out we may never be able to mend the fractured souls that get caught in its edges, it’s sharp sharp edges. So let it pour! The blood that drips down drains built on filth, bodies that fall between the cracks in someone else’s cash. I learned today that this world is a horrible place. Or perhaps I always knew. -H

~For those who never deserved it.~