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Hannah Marr Jun 14
i.
graduation feels a little like tripping, a little like falling, a little like flying. for thirteen years our only job was to do what our teachers told us, learn what they taught us, shut up and sit still and listen when they were talking. we wrote pages and pages and pages on historical significance and environmental responsibility and socio-economic balances, all the while thinking to ourselves what does any of this have to do with me? and now the future whispers across our shoulders while we sit in parallel rows wearing identical black gowns it has everything to do with you.

ii.
half of us dont know what we are doing or what it is going to be like where we are going, or if we are even going to make it, but each of us are filled with a new fire that ripples under our skin like power, like a song, like the secrets of the universe murmuring come find me, children of hope, children of madness. because we have to be mad to believe we can change anything, we have to have a little bit of crazy to make a change. lucky for us, we are plenty insane, ready to shape the world under hands of benevolence and tolerance and innovation and freedom and hope.

iii.
they tell us we are the future, but theyre not entirely correct. what they tend to forget is that we are also the present, and we are already picking up their pieces to make a new mosaic in the shape of humanity’s rebirth.

h.f.m.
Hannah Marr Jun 14
i.
this is a song called fear and it consists of late nights crying silently in the bathroom and the sound of falling without hitting the ground.

ii.
you always used to run your fingers through my hair, a guardian angel from the next room over, whenever i startled awake at night, struggling to remember how to expel the air from my lungs. you were too soft on me, murmuring heartbreaking words of encouragement and wonder. if only you knew that my dreams were not loss of fire but loosing of rage, and you were the only casualty (casualty of my own internal conflict, acidic self-loathing attacking this peculiar kind of love).

iii.
i will not leave you,
a whisper in what sounds like your voice, but this cold heart of mine cannot hope to believe it. i have been left too many times to count, by all but the demons dancing around the bonfire of my mind. you may love me as you say, brother, but i will only cause you pain.

iv.
i am always running, running, running, the soles of my shoes melting into the tarmac with heat rising in waves to blur the air (or it could just be my tired eyes playing their old tricks). the monsters are nipping at my heels, and i would not be able to live with myself if i led them to you.

v.
please forgive me for what i must do to protect my family (to protect you).

h.f.m.
Hannah Marr Jun 14
i.
i look at you and how you look away out the window as if hoping for some change in the scenery outside of this land-bound valley town. the heat of the sun pounds us into the ground like nails, where our limbs refashion themselves into tree roots searching towards deep desert springs. wine runs like blood from the hilltop vineyards, seeping into the ground with the expectation that bacchus’s approval flows behind in the form of celebratory madness. outsiders travel minutes, hours, days to claim these dark rivers running towards the gemstone lake that is the central attraction (though the haunted legends of beasts and spirits and gods are twisted into cheap gimmicks to attract the gullible and the unrepentant as well).

ii.
your distaste is a palpable thing, tucked behind your pleasant smile like a second-rate bicycle behind a sign warning against trespassers. you say, the sun may be burning, like these old forests we swore up and down to protect, but we’re all cold and distant as those stars above that are smothered by smog in the night sky. i watch you and how you watch the city around you sew their suits out of dollar bills and paint their skin red with the vineyards’ glory that spills from their lips. i see you and how you see the world, and we both watch this city drown itself in desert sands.

iii.
the wine creeps up the grass stalks and laps at our ankles, singing in silent temptation of a more classy form of intoxication and pleasant (if temporary) forgetting. i tell you as much and you tell me that you would rather swim out to meet the serpent of the lake before you submit to this city’s games, would rather start walking and keep walking, barefoot across the tarmac until it turns to gravel and then to dirt at the city limits, and out into the forests and fields of the land that has nourished and raised us (with only our spite and fire in return). you call people a disease, concentrated like ****-filled sores of plague in cities and towns, and bitterly acknowledge your part in the problem. i ask what you think the solution is and in return you  ask if i think the revolution will be silent or if it will take the whole of humanity down with it into the pitfalls of history and time.

iv.
you couldn’t care less if the world burns around you. your eyes, still staring out the window, tell a tale of a soul already so far from this world as to be beyond human comprehension. turning to me for the first time today, immediate in a way you haven’t been since i first met you in that empty grade-school classroom during those years of our innocence, you ask me what i would do if you woke me in the night to say goodbye. i told you that there was only ever one option, when it comes to leaving this dead-end town of lowercase gods and nomadic wanderers. when you leave (and i know it’s a ‘when,’ not an ‘if’) i will not hesitate to pack my own bags. the streets of this city pulse with power and legends and riches like the blood of some great creature sleeping under the mountain, but i will willingly leave that mystery buried when you reach the end of your rope and decide impermanence it better than staying.

v.
when you leave, i will follow you, watching as you blaze a trail ahead of me, to the end of the world (the end of our respective lives), and ever onwards, beyond even the end of time. i will always choose you.

- sometimes the end of suffering is just choosing not to live in the place of the pain

h.f.m.
Hannah Marr Jun 13
i.
your prose ache for company, a set of romantic ideals long bound in a strongbox labeled socially discouraged. you dont understand why they want you to treat her like some flower when she is one of those old-growth firs who has a soul older than you have ever lived and who will still be standing long after you are gone. you do not see the sense in treating her like glass when she is a steel-forged blade.

ii.
even still, you suppose you are a hopeless romantic, only you wish the roles could be reversed. you are weaker than her by far, and the both of you know it, so why must the prince save the princess from the dragon? (my thoughts are dragons, you write in black, erasable ink. dragons and fire.) you think that if you were to face down a dragon, whether or not there is a princess to save, it would swallow you whole.

iii.
flowers and chocolate and love poems are all part of the stereotypical romantic cliche, but youve never received any yourself. you wonder if you even deserve any

iv.
but listen, listen, little whiteboard poet. she may be strong and she may be sharp and she may have depths you could never hope to search, but just like you trace temporary words when no one is around, ive seen the way she looks at you when you arent paying attention. worry not, scholarly prince, your warrior princess is coming.

h.f.m.
Hannah Marr Jun 7
Where will you go when the music ends?
When the time comes to make amends
Or be bound to earth by chains of vice
Far below the sky’s burning ice?
Breath be the warden of this madhouse
Guarding against the eternal spouse
Of fear, descendant of night.
Only after you sleep can all be made right.
  May 27 Hannah Marr
shamamama
She painted peace over the wounded mouths twisted with lies, truths unspoken, love never claimed,
She brushed them with the pink of a newborn baby's lips

She painted peace over the hands that held weapons, fingers that had pulled triggers to **** or maul,
She scraped them green as the new shoots from blades of grass reborn in the Spring

She painted peace in the hearts of those women and men who held broken pieces filled with sadness, scarred with inner rage
She colored them red of the rose in full scent and full bloom

She painted peace on the eyes and bodies of children stripped away from their life force, their source of mother
She traced them the purest blue found in the color of water at dawn's first light

She painted peace in families torn and broken
She swept them with all the colors of the rainbow appearing just after the rain, when the light shines through with hope

She painted peace in the indigenous souls torn from their culture and land
She circled them the color of the green flash-
the flicker of pure green born after the sunsets, existing only for a second

She painted peace in the unborn and the born whose differences bring challenges to them and their families
She skimmed them with lavender fields blooming in the swirling winds, with the sounds of the bees buzzing in joy and abundance

She painted peace over the wounds, the carcasses of animals fallen in a frenzy of human greed and misunderstanding
She whisked them golden as the sun rising in its glory to begin a new day

She painted peace over the ghosts of the forests and their inhabitants
She rolled them the brightest yellow of the night sky--the first star rising-guiding us though the whispers of time steering us in the darkness

She painted peace in the waters, the rivers and oceans who were littered with the makings of man 
She glided them silver to reflect the light that is always around

She painted peace on the earth and women--places torn open and stripped, laying barren, vulnerable.  
She covered them the rich colors of terra cotta- freshly made pottery from hands who love creation

She painted the air, the unfiltered air, clogged, imbalanced
She flowed it clear, the color of innocence - when we look into the eyes of the newborn, and those just about to pass.

She painted it all,

And when the summer sun melted the colors and subjects, she molded the forms, colors, scent, textures and sounds into the shape of love as eternity.
She sang the sweetest birdsongs into the new day bringing in renewal  

She painted peace into all of life.
Sometimes I cannot fix, forgive or forget, and so I can make art and learn to how to accept and evolve. I listened to the song Imagine by John Lennon, and this song, inspired me.
Hannah Marr May 24
He shadows me when the sun filters through the clouds,
******* my steps and treading on my heels,
dragging at my leaden-limbs, wearying and bothersome,
though only ever at the edge of being noticed.
He reaches into my head and stirs up my thoughts like tea,
fogging up my mind and my sight.

At night, though, he leads me easily to bed,
and this time I am the one following,
and this time he teases, hovering only at the edge of awareness.
He who chased me so ruthlessly through the sunlight,
now watches silently as I struggle to find him under the moon.
Though, in all honesty, sleep has always been a scornful lover.

h.f.m.
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