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Hannah Marr Jun 2019
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 2019
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 2019
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 2019 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 2019
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.
Hannah Marr Apr 2019
Today the magpie cried 'salvation'
As I woke to tangled sheets
Binding bare, shaking legs.
My bed released me hesitantly,
Reluctant to entrust me to the day's devices.
Stormclouds buzz behind grey eyes
That vacantly watch steam rise in wisps
From a cup clutched in trembling hands.
Marshal the troupes,
Pen, paper, caffeine fix in hand,
An orderly retreat into the inner sanctum.
Today the magpie cried in dawn light.
I rolled over and went back to sleep.

h.f.m.
Hannah Marr Apr 2019
I keep seeing echoes of my lost friends
In new faces, in strangers' fair eyes;
A tilt of the head and soft laughter lends
Particular cadence to mem'ries cries.
A melancholy stalks into my chest
And I wonder what this feeling might mean
Since 'tis not sent by my dear friends who rest.
I'm missing someone I've not even seen.
From the future or from another life?
Are they friend, foe, or on the grey border?
My doubting brings me unnecessary strife.
Maybe I'll find out when I am older.
Though eyes of strangers and some sort of kin...
Gaze turned to my soul and looks sharp within.

h.f.m.
sonnet
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