Ink

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Boys with lungs collapsed and egos bruised, if you love her then you are lucky because the girls like to ride their bikes down paths carved in childhood scars, picture perfect smiles framed on walls melted like crayon wax in colors that stuck to the wallpaper of her bedroom. Had paper thin dreams that she learned would blow away with the wind in her chest someday. She often folds into herself until salty tears spill like waterfalls carved in her cheekbones. And if you dream about her than you are lucky. Because most of us lost her before she even waved, hello. She walks in fear of leaving behind footprints and if you love her than you are lucky. Because most of us are too drowned out to believe that she’s still got the fire in her heels. Paper dreams ablaze, she brings them back to life. So if you love her, I hope you know that you are lucky.-H

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Infatuation, Empty| A Poem

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You make the sky blush
Irises erupting In shades of burning brown
Misery, in multitudes
Dripping from the cracks in your soul.

Unsettling truths that seem to shine through
Curtains of all your stories
Stitched in silk.

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Sick Boy

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I can still see it clearly, tree trunk arms heavy with muscles glowing in rage.
A compass leading into the depths of irrationality, the city is filled with friends of friends and faces dipped in familiarity yet the streets keep leading me to dark hair lined by streaks of dusk and high cheekbones glossy under the summer sun. Jade green veins popping up from underneath your skin just below the wrist, forming maps of places I could never get to know. Turbulent voices laced in confidence but I could tell when it cracked falling low reaching for the ground gazing into the dirt with eyes that screamed of superiority closeted fears of rejection and loss of love yet to be found.

As skyscrapers of guilt so easily slept beneath a heart so bleak, clouded with fractures of repressed emotions waiting to be set free as you stand in line trying to fulfill youthful desires. Don’t forget who you are, who you used to be.
It’s never too late to late to take a dip into reality, muffled sounds and beaten down arms that beg for your return. It’s never too late to open your eyes.-H

I ALOMST GOT ARRESTED BECAUSE OF A CAKE, (STORY TIME)

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STORY TIME::

So it’s my friends eighteenth birthday and me along with about nine of my friends decide we want to hold a birthday party for her. So we start planning for this big day about two weeks early, making sure nothing and I mean NOTHING goes wrong. We carefully pick an incredibly expensive and sophisticated restaurant and we order an even more expensive cake in hopes of making her happy. Slowly but surly the big day rolls around, at about 5pm I pick my friend up from her house and we head towards this restaurant, now our friend that had ordered the cake had given the online store the address of the restaurant as it’s where we were all going to pay for the cake together.

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Closed Up Cubicles

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You’ve got creativity that swarms in multitudes waiting to fall out from underneath the white-collared button up that makes your shoulders slouch and the weight of each breath weigh a hundred times more than it did yesterday. You’ve got a brain no different from the man sat in the next cubicle but you’ve got a mind that somehow swears to bleed in colors. Maybe it’s the unnumbered intellectual philosophies that linger somewhere between the clouds of sleepless nights that leave you with cigarettes and things that’s you could write, but you never do.
And it’s that feeling of wanting to appropriate the things you visualise into tangible form something that is substantial and you can see it, feel the words on a page as the ink dries and they fall into place one after the other.

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Warmth Wrapped In November Chills |A Poem

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He was warmth.
Cloud soft skin as my fingers traced the plains of his chest.
His hair, a calamitous mess of hazel curls.
Cyclones drift in my stomach, his touch pouring them life.

He was the snow in July.
A complex combination of surprise.
His words could make gardens grow out of my chest.
Water the lilies and tulips and God knows how many others in my mind.

The ones he helped plant in the darkest of times.
And he would hold me tight.
Draw circles and keep drawing them on my thighs.
To stop my thoughts from flowing the wrong side.

He was the heat when I knew nothing but the cold.
Freezing palms, he would set fire to my problems.
As my tears became kerosene fueling the flames within.

He was the winter when it became too warm to breathe.
Clearing the claustrophobic feeling in my chest.
Ice melting its way inside to cure fevers resting on my body.
Because he was warmth wrapped in November Chills.

He was every season in itself.
Every feeling excelled. And emotions so deeply rooted in one.
He was fire and ice.
Quite intriguingly combined.-H

A Mindless Place

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I so often find myself in a labyrinth of clearly constructed lies. With white noise taking up my surroundings, it hurts to breath, more so to speak. The inevitability of the pain burning at the strands of knowledge in my brain. As my palms press against the walls of green and white, my toes drown deep in the sand beneath my feet.

I ask myself if I’m even alive, or have I mistaken the beating of my heart to the pounding of drums down the streets as they make me cover my ears. Still it doesn’t stop, as I walk on, feeble steps, bare feet. Skin brushing against the tar on the streets. The sky turns pale holding streams of resemblance to my very own skin. Pale.

And I can now start to feel my chest burn, the fire inside my stomach starting to spread, as my legs finally give away. And the ground splits in half, I brace myself for the fall but it never comes. That thump and the cracking of bones against concrete, the glistening of blood under the summer sun, it never comes.-H