Hello, HP,
My old friend.
I found myself writing here again,
I found myself smiling here again.
A trip down to memory lane,
where I have grown up drained.

It has been a while,
My dear chamomile —
A place that gave me comfort,
A place that gave me stomach flutters,
Blood on my veins alive throughout my body.

Hello, HP,
My old friend.
I have missed you all.

It flies amongst the stars.
Flashes for a moment.
Despite the left scars.
Holds a place close, yet far.

It carries the fallen.
From mistaken paths.
To reaches impossible.
And develops new plans.

It creates new countries.
Raises dead soldiers.
Stamps unsung heroes.
With a feeling of free.

Hear its silent sound.
Open up your eyes.
Place it in your heart.
Elevate from the ground.

It helps us climb.
Better than rope.
Do you see its shape?
It is hope.

A brown drool of dew
Crackling woven's clue
sitting on a desk pike
adjacent copies alike

But still he sits and gapes
on the old momento he keepsakes
with sober hands that rests
and of mellow smith's vest

on a creaky chair
with a pendulum clock
and a photograph he holds dear
as four seasons pass by the dreary wedlock

Through a thin-tormented picture
shallow eyes become ruddy
like an ill-fated venture
The lost of his Mrs. and laddie

that dim sullen memento of his
in that old wan home
is what brings him bliss
but locked inside a semi-finite dome
-he is-

I push you away,
But I want you to chase me,

I close my heart,
But I want you to keep asking,

I say no words,
But I want you to understand,

I know,
I'm a *****.

Just because you can't see your killer,
Doesn't mean they're not stabbing you,
Through the heart and head.