Ingredients:
- one (1) human shell
- one (1) sad or disastrous childhood memory
- one or more (1+) fear(s) and/or anxiety(s)
- one or more (1+) instances of contact with illness in loved ones
- one (1) empathetic heart [note: must still be beating]
- one (1) list of reasons to hate [but loving anyway]
- two or more (2+) supporters [even if only friends]
- several (1-3+) seeds of creativity
- infinite (∞) reasons to write

Steps:
1. Take the human shell, and open its mind. Place inside the sad memory, and mix with fear and ill loved ones. Let sit for 13-18 years.

2. Open the human's chest and place in the heart, pulsing steadily. Once the heart is embedded, engrave the list of reason to hate, but remember to saturate with uncaring attachment and devotion.

3. Connect this human to at least two others who will uphold them unconditionally, but don't make them perfect. Nobody is. Your human may not take heed of their support, but this is a necessary step.

4. Place the seeds of creativity in the well-cultivated, sorrowful mind and water liberally with reasons to write. Allow the ideas to ferment.

5. Release your completed poet into an ink rich environment and supply with plenty of paper, internet, and books. Remember to feed at least once a day and set a curfew if your poet tends to sleep less than three hours a night. Warning: these creatures are delicate, but immensely powerful. Handle with care and caution. They're your problem now.

h.f.m.

i've realized i'm not such a hollow thing
after all

in my gut, where i thought there was merely a hole
there is in fact a crow, with beating wings and piercing beak
that up to a point has remained asleep

in my chest, where i thought there was just an icy stone
there is in fact a clawing monster curled under my breastbone
that is no longer docile and rips into my lungs

in my hands, where i thought there was hardly numb tingling
there is in fact a inexplicably stuttering pulse
that has recently been so faint as to be imperceptible

in my head, where i thought there were only my own thoughts
there is in fact a choir of voices murmuring a lament
that even now rises as a tempest in my mind

h.f.m.

Ink scrawled on a torn scrap of paper incensed with dire intent and the stink of fear,
to scented stationary with loopy handwriting and 'I's dotted with hearts.
There is no real comparison, is there?
But each is a letter to those the writer cares about,
informing them of
a milestone decision.
Each letter is a turning point
that cannot be taken back,
symbolism of an end
and a new beginning.
Whichever way you look at it,
each paper, lined with letters,
is a flirt, with endings or otherwise.
Really, how different is death to love?
Are they really so dissimilar?

h.f.m.

i.
you are older than the stones beneath your calloused feet, but somehow you feel young, still childlike in your naivety despite the fact that the world has conspired to throw you to the rocks below. the waves crash over your broken form, but you are still gazing up at the diving birds.

ii.
give this beach a washed up body, these waves a soul to caress. give these fish some bones to nibble, these seagulls some remains to harass. broken and battered, bloated and blue, they'd find you on the stones with the surf soaking your skin. a gift to the sea and whatever deity of death that would come to claim the spirit left behind.

iii.
alas, if only oblivion were such an easy acquisition. you crawl from the seafoam, reborn anew in your silver-skinned glory. they are distraught by your survival, but they should've known that you will not die until your time. you cannot. there are still things you must do before you are granted your end.

h.f.m.