noun

1. the scent of after-rain and earthy vanilla saturate the pages of the time-worn books piled around me like my very own wizard tower. multiloquent magician that i am, weaving words with merely my will and a quill, i cannot help but think that the smell itself is its own kind of strange and wonderful magic.

2. the sound of faint bass through headphones hanging from around my neck twines through the counter-melody looping in my head and is like my own background music. life is a movie-set and in every recording there is a harmonious strain picked up by the mikes with no discernible source. i am my own hero in this one.

3. the taste of mint on the tip of my tongue as i inhale the perfume of my garden reminds me of tree-shadows under noon-day sun, or creeks trickling through boulder fields. sparrows nestle on my collar bones, tickling my throat and filling my mouth with the summer-dust flavor of feathers.

4. the sight of a sweet shop or a library or a craft market or a street busker sends an effervescent thrill across my shoulders, seeing the pieces of the puzzle that makes up my art, on display for the world.

5. the feel of a pen in my hand is akin to being touched by the divine, with the power of pure creation at my fingertips. a world of my own making unrolls before me. it is an ever-evolving, stirring, dynamic creature of ink that is singing singing singing to my soul.

h.f.m.

I am no longer afraid of death
And so I am not afraid for my own sake
I don't care if I'm in pain
Or if I die
Anymore

At least as far as I am concerned
I am more afraid of hurting people
Emotionally
Mentally
Physically
That is my only fear

I don't want people to
Cry because of me
I don't want people to
Die because of me

It would be better, I think
If they were ignorant of my issues
Or merely indifferent
Instead of caring about me
Which will only cause them grief

I am not the kind of person
Who will live a long and happy life
I am not the kind of person
Who will grow old

And since I am scared of hurting people
I'm terrified of being a burden to them
Sometimes I think it would be better
If I wasn't here
Anywhere but here
Or if I didn't exist at all

I feel like a part of me is missing

h.f.m.

It's 8pm, but why does that matter?
8pm is a world of home movies and cuddles and steaming tea,
where time is put on hold for a while, just to
give us a moment to breathe, lean in, and sigh,
"This is us, this relaxed euphoria. This is us, this retreat from the dawn and the brutal day."

It's 10pm, but what difference does that make?
10 pm is a world of computer screens and soft music and stories,
where time stretches and bends, shaping itself to
the space around you, murmuring just out of your sight,
"This is us, this peaceful calm. This is us, this rest from the dawn and the bustling day."

It's midnight, but does that mean anything, really?
Midnight is a world of shadows and streetlights and fog,
where infinity is a moment, a breath of space to
grasp with cold fingers to bring to one's mouth and whisper,
"This is us, this cool desolation. This is us, this retribution against the dawn and the burning day."

It's 2am, but what does that have to do with anything?
2am is a world of pauses and hesitations and waking dreams,
where time has a physical, transparent form to
inhabit like this liminal skin that hisses and cries and hums,
"This is us, this recurring threshold. This is us, this barrier against the dawn and the broken day."

It's 4am, but who cares?
4am is a world of laughter and grins and reckless abandon,
where we are liberated from our corporeal forms to
transcend the bonds of duty and responsibility, singing,
"This is us, this ethereal dance. This is us, this rebellion against the dawn and the belligerent day."

It's 6am, but is it?
6am is a world of last chances and final requests and goodbyes,
where the time-slipping of the night is fading to
be replaced by the inevitability of the rising sun, sighing,
"This is us, this new ending. This is us, this poem against the dawn and the bothersome day."

h.f.m.

Old soul
You've heard this all before
All the romantic platitudes that I might sway you with, that I might use to invoke your affection

Young body
You're sick and tired of this
Your physical form defining you and what you can think and what you can be

Immortal mind
You're already here and gone
Forever is long, but time doesn't exist, and you know you can do anything

Bird-like hands
You can't stand this
The inaction causing your fingers to flutter and alight and move on, restless and reckless

Seaside eyes
You can see it all
My heart laid bare and as tempestuous as the ocean before your feet, the waves reaching, reaching

Cosmic smile
You know the effect you have on me
Eye-teeth cutting the strings that tie me to earth, gravity is reversed, and we're among the stars

Phoenix heart
You burned the last time
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, let us rise and begin again.

h.f.m.

noun

1. i will always be afraid.'bold, heroic, daring...' these are words to describe another. despite this, i will never shy away from myself. i may not be brave, but i am honest.

2. have you ever found a poem that touched you, brushed your very soul, and sent shivers across your skin? inexplicably, indisputably, a dust-spark alights gently in your lungs. inhale, fire. exhale, smoke.

3. flames on my tongue like a shakespearean sonnet, embers on my lips searing like birdsong. i am too terrified to speak. for you, i would.

4. i am finally doing something right.

h.f.m.

I've picked my last fight, it seems
Broken face
Shattered ribs
Splintered bones
Loosing blood, warmth, life
Pain is my constant companion, my lover, my being
We're both fading, fading, fading fast
The best things come in threes, don't they?
Mother, father, child
Waking, sleeping, dreaming
Birth, life, death
Now comes the darkness, the emptiness, the cold
Didn't the weatherman predict a storm today?
But isn't that the sun come out?
It's really beautiful today, isn't it?

h.f.m.

verb

1. a rapid tempo beats behind my ribs, beats inside my skull. a marching drum within my skin, setting the pace. we run, we fly, twirling and leaping in the clearing around the blaze. the stars flash between the leaves above in time with your pulse. you laugh, wild and loud and full. you are a dancing creature of the wood, and i never tire of watching you.

2. we would win no prizes with our art but our movements are synced with our breathing, and is there a better definition of grace? stumbling over each other and using each other's arms to keep upright, our laughter is a tangible thing twisting along beside us in the dark on the slick, dewy grass.

3. this moment is forever, a background soundtrack of reckless, boundless joy tinged with fire and moonlight. this is the epitome of the immortal, boundless youth.

4. this moment, this dance, this one eternal night... think of this when you think of me.

h.f.m.

BIRDSONG
like a half-formed thought
like a
half-heard word
at the edge
of awareness
like a voice that called your
name but no one was
there
a mocking ghost of sound

BREATHING
In.
Out.
It's fine, then—
the air is too thin
can't breathe
heart trips
can't see
you're dying, then—
You're fine.
In.
Out.

MY ROOM
i feel like a stranger
sitting on my own bed
an intruder
an unwelcome guest
my gaze alights uneasily
and flickers away
why am i here?
i do not belong

SUNSHINE
Warmth hitting your back
Heating your skin
But there is ice in your chest
Untouched by dawn

THE COLOR BLUE
the sky is clear
unlike
your foggy mind
the sky is empty
unlike
your cluttered thoughts
the sky is blue, blue, blue
the color of this thing growing in your chest

MY EYES
unfocused
will not focus
blurred edges
vision, dark
vision, wandering
vision, gone
uncooperative
i will not cry
i can't

CLASS
the teacher's voice buzzing, buzzing
over your head
why can't you concentrate?
you look at the writing on the board
it is in a language you have forgotten how to read
time is a loop, this minute this minute this—

MY HEAD
stuffed with cotton
stuffed with useless facts
'thought' is wading through
a rotting marsh
as my mind
falls apart

MIRRORS
You look through
a window and see
a stranger
but the glass is backed
with silver.
The stranger, then
is really you.

MY HANDS
trace the blue veins
under skin of the wrist
the back of the hand
like a map to a strange place
knuckles as mountain ridges
palm-lines as valleys
a land that i am not sure that i can traverse
i know the stars better than the back of my hand
my hands, limp and empty

THE CITY
normally roaring with life
it feels muted
distant
this isn't your home
this isn't your home

EMPATHY
you feel numb
you don't feel at all
you feel angry
you feel wrong

WORDS
your only weapon
your last defense
stolen out from under you
like a
rug
these syllables turn to
ash on your tongue
before they can pass you lips
you cannot speak

SUNSET
the day
is over?
the day
had begun?

MY GUT
hollow
hungry
no, not hungry
but something close

maybe it's not any of these that are wrong
maybe it's just me

h.f.m.

MY GUT
hollow
hungry
no, not hungry
but something close

h.f.m.

SUNSET
the day
is over?
the day
had begun?

h.f.m.

WORDS
your only weapon
your last defense
stolen out from under you
like a
rug
these syllables turn to
ashes on your tongue
before they can pass your lips
you cannot speak

h.f.m.

EMPATHY
you feel numb
you don't feel at all
you feel angry
you feel wrong

h.f.m.

THE CITY
normally roaring with life
it feels muted
distant
this isn't your home
this isn't your home

h.f.m.

MY HANDS
trace the blue veins
under skin of the wrist
the back of the hand
like a map to a strange place
knuckles as mountain ridges
palm-lines as valleys
a land that i am not sure that i can traverse
i know the stars better than the back of my hands
my hands, limp and empty

h.f.m.

MIRRORS
you look through
a window and see
a stranger
but the glass is backed
with silver.
The stranger, then
is really you.

h.f.m.

MY HEAD
stuffed with cotton
stuffed with useless facts
'thought' is wading through
a rotting marsh
as my mind
falls apart

h.f.m.

CLASS
the teacher's voice buzzing, buzzing
over your head
why can't you concentrate?
you look at the writing on the board
it is a language you have forgotten how to read
time is a loop, this minute this minute this—

h.f.m.

MY EYES
unfocused
will not focus
blurred edges
vision, dark
vision, wandering
vision, gone
uncooperative
i will not cry
i can't

h.f.m.

THE COLOR BLUE
the sky is clear
unlike
your foggy mind
the sky is empty
unlike
your cluttered thoughts
the sky is blue, blue, blue
the color of this thing growing in your chest

h.f.m.

SUNSHINE
Warmth hitting your back
Heating your skin
But there is ice in your chest
Untouched by dawn

h.f.m.

MY ROOM
i feel like a stranger
sitting on my own bed
an intruder
an unwelcome guest
my gaze alights uneasily
and flickers away
why am I here?
i do not belong

h.f.m.

BREATHING
In.
Out.
It's fine, then—
the air is too thin
can't breathe
heart trips
can't see
you're dying, then—
You're fine.
In.
Out.

h.f.m.

BIRDSONG
like a half-formed thought
like a
half-heard word
at the edge
of awareness
like a voice that called your
name but no one was
there
a mocking ghost of sound

h.f.m.

Not all lies are lyrical
Not every city is safe
Not all bruises are galaxy spirals
Not every spirit's a wraith

Not all poetry is written to please
Not every song will go viral
Not all jobs contain passion
Not every foe is a rival

Not all skies are this sunny
Not every rose has thorns
Not all of my thoughts are happy
Not every devil has horns

Not all of these demons are shadows
Not every rhyme can be catchy
Not all confessions are truth
Not every poet is happy

h.f.m.

noun

1. you call me pessimist— doubter, defeatist, doomwatcher. you might as well add dangerous, defiant, disruptive to your list. you dare label me? you who believe the common people —the world— can do no wrong? you prove my point, hypocrite. am i not a person with second chances? or am i entirely deserving of your up-to-now withheld scorn, merely for the fact that i now see the truth clearly and you remain pitifully blind?

2. how can i trust when all trust, again and again, is proven unfounded? people just want something from you. they always want something. you are dangerously naive to believe otherwise.

3. do not pity me. i care not for your sympathy. i prefer your revulsion, your loathing. at least then you know like i do. you know the truth —inherently we are selfish inherently we are self-centered inherently we are self-serving inherently we only care about self self self— i only care about myself. you only care about yourself.

4. bitter, sardonic laughter follows my every word. i know the truth because if all only care or self, they can only see if they don't even care that much. i am apathy incarnate, no emotion clouds my vision. i see all, and know that honor does not exist outside fantasy and fable.

h.f.m.

my native language is thought
and so spoken/written/signed language
frustrates me to no end

words do no justice
to what is in my head
like a photograph of a sunrise
taken with the first camera
or a drawing
of the northern lights
by a toddler

i am a novice when it
comes to voice/expression/communication
my thoughts become disjointed when
they leave my head
through my mouth/pen/hands

i cannot make myself understood
i cannot understand myself

hey, to whatever higher power is listening,
developing telepathic abilities would be nice about now

h.f.m.

adjective

1. i wonder what you think when you look at me with those oh so perfect sweet eyes. do you think what a monster. do you think i am seeing a legend in the making.

2. we all bleed the same color when the thin armor of our skin in cut and parted. the pain is only temporary. everything is temporary. but this blood is such a vibrant red.

3. the other day you lay on the damp grass in the school field wondering aloud why the people could be so cruel, why the sky was so covered in smog, why the world was so cold, why, why, why. wouldn't we all like to know.

4. this is all we are. pathetic creatures who don't know what we have until it's gone.

5. they call me bitter. they call me cold. they call me hollow. i am merely a more honest one of them.

6. and do not forget— you are just like me. you too have no soul.

h.f.m.

It is an opinion that I have oft' expressed
to family and friends
that love poems are the epicenter
of the stereotypical romantic cliche.

The problem with someone like myself
expressing such a thought
is that I have no basis of comparison
to determine the worth of such a poem.

You see, in my experience, such things
can be correctly valued
only by those who have an objective
understanding of love and poetry both.

I, unlike most, have not the credentials
to evaluate either
since I am a novice in one
and greatly biased in the other.

There is the possibility that jealousy
is the root of this view
since I have not experienced love
and cannot poetically imitate such passion.

Lonesomeness breeds bitterness
breeds loathing
breeds scorn, and ridicule, and
I cannot honestly deny these in myself.

Love poems, I admit, are quite beautiful
though equally painful
odes to a complexity far beyond
the realm of my limited understanding.

It is an opinion that I have oft' expressed
to family and friends
that love poems are the epicenter
of the stereotypical romantic cliche.

Which, I suppose, is not really a bad thing.

h.f.m.

noun

1. sharp teeth, fluttering hands, heart of a dying star— icarus himself could not imagine the heights you have climbed or your glorious, blazing fall. your bones are burning, your bones are ash, scattered across this never-place between life and death and eternal limbo.

2. you're permanently damaged, but it's fine, you're fine. you can always expect a myriad of scars to accompany the trauma. it's not like it's anything new, either. at least if you burn you might be able to take this unkind world down with you.

3. the inferno surrounding you dances with deadly beauty. and as we all know, beautiful things are lethal.

4. you understand you are a liability?

5. you don't want to go back to that dark place in your mind again. it would be better to be mere cinders.

h.f.m.

It's funny how
most nights
I can't sleep
unless I first
spend a moment,
a mile a minute,
drawing out words
from my mind
and putting them
on a page.

I lend shape
to my thoughts
and put them
away
so sleep
can come
and numb
my mind.

Be it poetry,
or a novel,
or discordant ramblings
akin to a blaring *****
between my ears
and behind my eyes,
I must first
empty myself
of myself.

The night is my enemy
that feeds off of my
overactive
mind
that I must
empty
in order to
sleep.

But I'm coping,
I'm fine,
I'm fine.

Five hours is still
better than four,
right?

h.f.m.

noun

1. this end is only a new beginning, the man at the podium affirms. a better place, a new adventure, is waiting for all of us when we pass on. i care not for that, watching my family's stony faces. there is a terrible wrenching where my stomach used to be. it's name is guilt.

2. i haunt my own home for the next several days, the next several weeks, the next several months, the next several years. i watch over them, trying to pay back their kindness from a past life. there is a pull where my chest used to be. it's name is obligation.

3. a man comes to be, insubstantial. rid yourself of this burden, he says. you need not be their keeper. they have forgiven you long before your passing.

4. i am free, i am free, i am free.

h.f.m.

This place is constricting
My world is too small
A handful of towns, tied together with a few roads
A highway or two, lifelines
Beyond my borders the world still isn't big enough
There aren't enough destinations on the map to sate my curiosity
I feel like a dog on a leash, straining to be free
To run by untamed waters, to traverse great fields
Reined in by my handler
Preventing me from losing myself to the unknown
I supposed I can understand the sentiment
If I ever left to explore, I don't know if I'd come back
But my confinement chaffes like a noose

h.f.m.

We haven't seen each other for three years and now you want to talk?
Fine, okay, let's talk.
Let's talk about how you took an impressionable kid and twisted them into what you wanted.
Let's talk about how the world revolved around you, according to you.
Let's talk about how you took my name, spit on it, and dragged it through the dust.
Let's talk about how when you had someone, they had to fight for you to let them go.
Let's talk about how I was the first to put you in your place
And now you want be to come crawling back?
Unbelievable.

Let's talk about how I never want to see you again.
Let's talk about how I never want to speak to you again.
Let's talk about how I never even want to think about you again.
Let's talk about how you can't touch me, now that I'm free of you.

And let's talk about all of this over the phone,
Because I can't stand to see your face.
Better yet, let's talk over text,
Because your voice itself makes me sick.
And when we're done —no, when I'M done—
Forget my name.
Forget my voice.
Forget my face.

I never want to hear from you again.
You're finished.

h.f.m.

noun

1. you think you know what i am? you know nothing.

2. 'crazy,' you mutter, strapping me in white with buckles and soothing words of false promise. 'delusional,' you whisper, bolting the door of this padded room and leaving me behind with the echoes of your footsteps. 'formidable,' you admit, in the quiet of your thoughts as tendrils of fear take root. at least you have one thing right.

3. are you listening? i am the end of all things. you cannot hope to contain me. i see all, i know all, i am all. there is nowhere i cannot escape to track you down. there is nowhere you can hide. i will find you.

4. it is written in the stars. my rise, from the ashes of this prison that smells of antiseptic and lemons and sickness. my *******, of this disintegrating world and all others. my fulfillment, of all and every purpose. you will bow. you will all bow. nothing will be as before.

5. i am everything. i am the world. i am you.

h.f.m.

adjective

1. i never asked to be like this, consumed utterly. when i run out of ink i dip my quill in my own veins and scratch out beautiful, ethereal, unutterable words in crimson. passion and pain are interchangeable in my mind, each one bleeding into the other and through each other.

2. words forge my palace and my prison. i compose poetry and story and power, like a creature possessed. my pen flies across the page, like it has a mind of its own.

3. i run out of space on the page in front of me, filling my notebook, filling innumerable napkins at various cafés with half-formed thoughts and unintelligible scribbles. i ink 3am inspirations and epiphanies on my skin, up and down my arms, a living testament to my obsession, my mania.

4. i must move mountains and i have a teaspoon for a *****.

h.f.m.

the night is cold and she sits cross-legged in the middle
of her backyard,
dressed only in a tank top and shorts.
she looks up at where the stars would be
if the sky
weren't filled with city lights and smog

she wonders if the stars are even there anymore.

                                                       ­                     stars are stars are stars
                                                  the ones in the sky aren't the only ones.

yes, but they are the ones that matter.
to her.

                                                           ­                                           of course.
                                                         ­ but still not only, not a singularity.

there is only singularity.
she stares at the empty sky and thinks this.
only singularity, individuals and alone.

                                                         ­                                         not always.

often enough.

she stands
and enters the dark and silent house.
she knows her brother sleeps down the hall,
her sisters sleep down the stairs.
but nothing stirs.
there is only her.

                                                           ­       night thoughts are dangerous.

that is truth.
she thinks and thinks and her
thoughts spiral

down,

down,

down.

                              ­                                                               why not sleep?

sleep is elusive. she has tried,
chasing after rest to the point were exhaustion
is a familiar companion,
pounding along beside her as she runs.
exhaustion and a Heaviness,
curled up behind her eyes.
the Heaviness stirs, sometimes.
she can live with the headache.
it is a gift, in a way, telling her she is not alone in her mind

                                               what of the morning? what of the dawn?

the sun stabs her eyes and burns the words out of her mouth

as the house wakes the noise builds until she only wants
the dimness and numbness of the dusk again.

                                                         ­       this is really about you, isn't it?

you are too clever for me.
she-
i haven't slept well in so long.

                                                          ­        i wish you a good night, then.

wishes mean nothing anymore,
and a good night is a night where my mind isn't
turning over and over
like a riled dog,
whether or not that means sleep.

i have waking dreams now.

                                                           ­                           and is that so bad?

i suppose not.
but i know i should not have them.
night thoughts are dangerous, you said,
and even more so when they turn up like carrion birds
in the day,
pecking and tearing away at what's left of a mind.

                            you poor child. the world has not been kind to you.

no, the world has not been kind.
but i am not disillusioned.
i was never told it would be.

                  that does not mean there aren't soft things, warm things.

things that dry your eyes and fill your emptiness?

                                                     ­                                                          yes.

i have a place inside shaped like one of those,
but it remains empty.
sometimes i wonder if it will ever be filled.
if i will ever feel whole.

                                                       ­                       do not say such things.

fine.
i won't.
but i'll still think them.
even if i try not to, i won't be able to stop it.

                                                            ­                                              cynic.
          ­                               there must be some good feeling inside you.

there is not. i am selfish, selfish, selfish.

...

old things stir in my chest.

                      there is always redemption, there is always absolution.

i hope so. i do not know.
i only know there is not peace.

                                                         ­  there will be, there always will be.

i don't believe you.

                                                           ­ that does not change what is true.

it can. belief is the foundation of most truths spoken.

                                                   spoken by silver and devious tongues.

is there any other kind?

                                                          ­                                  yes, yes, yes.
                                           there is truth, there is hope, there is peace.
                                    always, surely as the sun rises in the morning.

is there?
i am not sure of anything anymore,
not even of the sun.

                                                      it is not hopeless, you have a chance.

are you certain? the night still calls me.

                                                            ­                there is always a chance.

you keep saying that.
always, always.
is there an always?
everything dies, everything ends.
that doesn't sound like /always/ to me.

                                                            ­                              there is, there is.
                                                             ­                                        a promise.

promises mean nothing to me.
too many given have been broken.

                                                        ­outside the night is dark and cold.
                                                          ­                     do you wish to return?

what i wish for does not matter. it never mattes.
it is what it is and will be.

                                                            ­                            it always matters.

there's that word again. always.
as if there are no exceptions.

                                                    ­         the night calls. do you answer?

no. i will not answer to anyone ever again.

-(insomnia is an old friend and the moon and i make three)

h.f.m.

Once, in a dream, I walked the night sky
Draped in nothing but constellations
I plucked a dying star from the velvet dark
Held it between my teeth as I plummeted
And kissed dirt
All at once buried and carressed
With a smoking crater for a bed
I slept
Feverish with sparks
Flying off me to ignite the world

Now, when I am awake, I walk barefoot across concrete
Dressed in baggy, shapeless clothes
I put a cigarette to my lips
Hold the smoke in my lungs as I stop
Under a street lamp
All at once illuminated and invisible
With a jackhammer for a heart I grin
Into the shadows
Feral with a darkness
Of my own that can rival even the night

Someday, in a story, I will walk on embers
Clothed in flame and majesty
I will taste prophecy on my tongue
Archaic syllables filled with bitter triumph
As I burn
All at once incandescent and lethal
With a last cruel smile for a dark world
I will denounce it
Free with a light
Searing spirit encompassing all of time

h.f.m.

Lungs full of stardust
The cosmos in your eyes
Ethereal galaxies under your collar bones
Corporeal nebulae in your sighs

Breathing iron and dust
With bones of unearthly light
Golden, eternal pulse
Guardian of the night

h.f.m.

Shards of glass and roses in your rib cage
Instead of lungs
Petals on your tongue and pieces of broken bottles
Instead of teeth
Inhaling the scent of flowers and beer
Instead of air
Speaking in thorns and silky liquors
Instead of words
You are a garden and a foggy hangover
Instead of a girl

h.f.m.

Three simple steps

Number One
Forget
Release all your fears
Relinquish all your anxieties
Empty yourself of worry and doubt

Number Two
Relax
Release all your commitments
Relinquish all your goals
Empty yourself of passion and motivation

Number Three
Let go
Release all your thoughts
Relinquish all your emotions
Empty yourself of spirit and control

Then you have become a flaming celestial body
A supernova
You have become starlight

h.f.m.

I never wanted to live forever. It will never end, but it feels so final. Never aging, never dying, never changing. I watch those who chose eternity with wide eyes and bated breath, waiting for their inevitable fall. I feel them, and they are divine. But divinity is not for mortal minds. It pulses and writhes under their skin, staining their thin lips and bared teeth gold with ichor. They hunger and shake, and are never sated. And now I know why the pantheon was declared mad. They feast like they are gods and drink like nothing can touch them, but they are like shattered glass and burnt pages of a declaration that used to represent freedom. Untouched by death, they are prisoners of their own constructs.

I am content with being human, singing and crying and hoping and breaking.

I don't want to live forever, immortalized in a world that does not care.

It does not care.

I never wanted it. I didn't want to live forever.

h.f.m.

One step at a time, down this lonely road.
One word at a time, that's how the story goes.
One song, one go. Put on a show.
One cry, final breath, sinking slowly down to death.

h.f.m.