We often put people into boxes. Nonexistent, made up, nothing close to reality. Boxes.
The first impression doesn’t matter when it comes the inner contents of the box labeled with a particular persons name.

It’s the memories. Those that are stronger seem to dominate. They take up most of the space. When it comes to you my box is filled with an abundance of emotions. One overlapping the other, fighting for space when there is only so much I can give.

Your box is overflowing with the smell of caffeine and pancakes in the morning, it is loaded with the warmth of your arms as they sit bound around my shoulders, safety. Raindrops dripping from your lashes as smoke fills our lungs, your box is the first cigarette that loosely hung from my lips.

Your box is a bunch of Lavender’s in a vase on the kitchen counter for when I come home and it’s watching anime till’ four in the morning when we end up snoring on each others shoulders, just to wake up with sore backs the next day.

Your box is also throwing things and watching them slam against the walls forming irreplaceable cracks in the white, it’s screaming at the top of my lungs and begging you to stay. It’s watching you and her, hand in hand as scars start to form in mine.

Your box is saying goodbye because there’s nothing else left for me to say. It’s packing up and getting out of your way, of her way.
Some boxes are better left sealed, shut tight. And I’m trying to forget, but the box I build for you has stuck to me over time like glue and forgetting might just be impossible.-H


‚ÄčAnd you cannot love me, for it is impossible to adore the human embodiment of fear, anxiety and confusion. When that is all that I am. 

Some days I feel detached from my own damn body. Like I am a robot simply doing as told. Drifting with the wind.
I tend to focus on the smaller things in life. At one moment it’s all too bright and I can’t understand whether I even like the light. It stings my eyes, the sun.And when it’s dark, all I see is black. The color of thousands of men and women and children treated wrongly. Stolen rights and discrimination. 
Because I’m complexity. I am the exact definition of turmoil. Distress radiates off of my skin and every hair on my body. How can you not see?
I am a mess. And you seem to be blind.
The very thought of you trying to turn the other cheek from my insecurities winds me up like a child’s toy. It twists my veins into knots I’m afraid will never be undone.

And I ask you why? Why don’t you see me the way I see myself?

You whisper in my ear making my skin spontaneously scream.

You say, “Because I love you. Because this is what loving is like.”-H

Your Last Breath


How did it feel? When you chose to say goodbye to the world.
On your dying day, did your chest feel tight? Was your heart all the way up in your throat, was it hard to breathe?

Did you look back? Did your hands shake? Your body sweat. Did those oceans inside your eyes finally start to overflow, coming out the other side, did they brim with tears that slid down your face over the dimples carved into your very cheeks?

All the hurt that ran in your blood, all the pain that swam in your veins finally escape, spluttering out of your body onto the floor, did you scream? Or was it just relief?

Did you see them? When you took your last breath, did you say something?
I hope you never forget.-H



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 Seem To Be Broken.


When our dreams fail us and reality kicks us in the arse that’s when we wake up.
When we realise the monsters aren’t under our beds they aren’t in the closet they breathe within us, two sides to every story, two parts of every person .
One so gentle and kind and the other aching on the inside, so when it’s finally free the outbursts start and pills are taken to keep down the feelings they’re not mistaken.

Are you lonely when you’re alone?

I wonder how many of us doubt ourselves everyday because the posters on our walls that’s who we’re supposed to be. So when “fake it till’ you make it” stops working we break.
We lash out and they think we’re crazy, that’s what we’re taught right?
It’s not called being crazy its emotional damage, but you can’t see it so it’s not there.
You can’t see her thoughts, so she’s fine, you can’t see his heart so he’s alright.
Doctors can stitch you up after an accident but what about your soul, who fixes that, your mind who can read that, who can stitch up all the bad thoughts and cover them with a bandage of good ones.
Who can see what goes on inside and who can really set us free?

Between you and me I think that we are all we have, so please don’t kill yourself with your own hands, the world’s full of people who can do that for you. The world’s full of liars and heartbreakers but are there enough people who heal hearts and mend souls, let’s start with ourselves because we seem to be quite broken too.-H

In The Movies |A Poem


Dry mouths and empty hearts.
Something to drink and something to drown in,
The way her fingernails dig into her flesh, her hands forming fists.

Blood drips down and tears are formed,
But it can all be wiped away with a single dry cloth,
Can it be forgotten though?

Running down the streets late at night,
Unsure of our surroundings, we are lost,
But isn’t that how it happens in the movies?

You see him through the crowds,
matching hearts and the glow of your souls
It’s like glitter on the sidewalk,
It’s like the jewels I never asked for.

One cold afternoon,
One empty hotel room.
Two slightly crippled hearts,
And the souls, those shining souls,
It’s such a shame, one now broken and the other completely numb.-H


Isn’t that how it happens in the movies though, you see him through the crowd, everything changes.-H

Writer’s Or Alcoholics


Someone once told me that poets and writers are like alcoholics, I didn’t quite get what they ment by that. But now I get it, I get what they said, I get why they said it.
An alcoholic needs a bottle, a writer needs a pen and a paper, an alcoholic takes a few sips, he starts to forget, a writer writes a few words he starts to float. After a few sentences, a few verses he starts to slip, drift into dizziness. Not aware of his surroundings he digs deep, cutting open old wounds for the sake of it.
He forgets who he is, where he is and let’s the words fill the pages, like he’s drunk and doesn’t give a fuck what rolls off of his lips.
He doesn’t know how, he does it, it just happens, it’s the things he needs to get off his chest, afraid it might be too much to hold in, afraid it might end up choking him.
He takes things as simple as the sky, he spins them around and out of perspective, he makes something entirely odd out of it, how? You ask,well he’s drunk to be honest he doesn’t know himself, so he says that it’s nothing and crumples the piece of paper up tossing it in the bin, like an alcoholic does his senses.
Transported, a traveller of time, God knows how far he’s been, just sitting at his desk surfing through events in his mind.
If his thoughts allow, he might even get some sleep tonight.-H