Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Hannah Marr May 2018

                                                               ­                                         "Terry!
                                                                    ­                      Are you alright?
                                                        ­                      Did the truck hit you?"

"Yeah, m'fine.
Just... fell.
Got knocked on the head.
I'll be okay."

                                                         ­                                "You're bleeding.
                                                       ­                                       Here, sit still."

"Aaron.
Do you hear it?"

                                                           ­                                     "Hear what?"

"The music..."

                                                      ­                       "Hold it together, Terry.
                                                          ­          An ambulance is on its way."

"Aaron..."

                                              ­                                                   "Yes, Terry?"

"Would you sing for me?"

                                                           ­                                                        "...
                                                                ­          You know I can't do that."

"Why ever not?
You used to...
all the time..."

                                                       ­                                      "Stay with me!
                                                             ­                           Don't fall asleep!"

"Was it the death?
In the forest?

Dear Uncle Jim, this garden ground
That now you smoke your pipe around
Has seen immortal actions done
And valiant battles lost and won.


Is that how it goes?"

                                                         ­             "It's a nursery rhyme, Terry.
                                                          ­                 I'm sure you got it right."

"What's it called?
I can't remember the rest."

                                                         ­                 "Historical Associations
                                                   ­                                                   I believe."

"Sing it for me?
I don't know the rest."

                                                         ­                                             "Oh, well,
                                                           ­                                            let's see...

                                                         ...and valiant battles lost and won.

                                                           Here we had best on tip-toe tread,
                                                                ­While I for safety march ahead,
                                                            For this is that enchanted ground
                                                   Where all who loiter slumber sound...


                                                      ­                                                       Sorry.
                                                          ­                                     I can't finish."

"Yeah, I get it.
Thanks, Aaron."

                                                        ­                                                         "..."

"You have a nice voice."

                                                        ­                     "The ambulance is here.
                                                          I­'ll come meet you in the hospital."

"...
okay."

h.f.m.
Historical Associations is by Robert Louis Stevenson
172 · May 2019
MY SCORNFUL LOVER
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.
171 · Jun 2018
CARING
Hannah Marr Jun 2018
why is caring
so
hard?

especially when i am so
empathetic

i feel others' emotions
their hurt and fear and love
as if they were my own

so why can i not
bring myself to
any sort of
motivation?

it is easier by far
to let everything
sort itself out
it doesn't need
any help from me

why don't i
care?

how can such empathy
coexist with this utter
apathy?

and i know
this should bother me
but hey
guess what?
i kinda don't care

h.f.m.
169 · May 2018
MAJESTIC WINTER
Hannah Marr May 2018
Wind and snow
Perfection
Acceptance of the dark, shaking wound
Resurfacing
Oh, Champion, sleep
Survive the tender ministrations of death
Disarming as the winter peace might be
Do not act impulsively
Or the river of souls will claim you
Six feet underground

h.f.m.
Hannah Marr Oct 2019
PART THE FIRST
our words are painted in the blood that coats our hands from our self-vivisection a harsh introspection gently brushing crimson paint over our mouths like too-red lipstick in the shade of the sunset before a storm and self-deprecation becomes an artform akin to the irony of smiles in the faces of skulls and surviving without really living.

PART THE SECOND
who was it that so thoroughly convinced us that gentleness is weakness that vulnerability is to be avoided at all costs that emotions are distractions that showing fear is a sign of defeat? when we accept our broken pieces not as failure but as experience and do not beat ourselves up for the cracks that remain that is when we will truly know who we are.

PART THE THIRD
we are afraid of the things we want the most because striving for something we cannot reach hurts less that achieving all we could have ever hoped for and having it slip through shaking hands like smoke in the winds of change and if that is not the hallmark of self-sabotage than i dont know what is.

PART THE FOURTH
like all things time is a construct merely a patchwork of cogs and stone circles and the small pieces of autonomy we carve out of our day to paste on clock faces like our painted-on smiles and ready acceptance of having our days dictated by our ancestors’ need to define-contain-control.

PART THE FIFTH
the hallways of academia are perfumed by anxious fear-sweat and existential rage mixing as a noxious fog of violet and violent movement in absence and the eddying swirls of determination’s backdrafts.

PART THE SIXTH
we loved legends with prophecies when we were young because we wanted purpose and direction and meaning and now we devour stories about rebellion and fist-fighting with fate because now we think we know that being told to only set our feet in orchestrated patterns is little more than accepting our role as puppets to the cosmos but really what do we know about anything? there is joy in clear directions and there is joy in carving our own path but either way life is a jungle and we are just as likely to be devoured by graceful creatures of earth and sky and beauty on the path as off of it.

PART THE SEVENTH
they say that youth is pain and that growing up is exhaustion but who are they and why do they get to dictate the trials of life by binding us into cliché who are they to speak sorrow into our very breath who are they to tell us they have taken the measure of human existence and found it wanting?

PARTH THE EIGHTH
peace is the name of a friend ive never met who might as well be imaginary and relegated to the dimmed halls and dusty attics of my early years.

PART THE NINTH
sometimes i wonder if i donated my breath to charity and the remaining hollow shell of myself to science would my gift be considered a sacrifice would my story be considered a tragedy would my life have meant anything would i have made my ancestors proud?

PART THE TENTH
and we learn that words are alive alive alive as we drown in eloquence not meant to be spoken in high places not meant for voices of thunder or gods but for the fragile invincibility of children.

h.f.m.
168 · May 2018
BLESS THE DAMNED
Hannah Marr May 2018
Bless all those who
never had the bare minimum
since the day they were born,
fighting for every scrap of life
and still sharing the small surplus.

Bless all those who
were born into a minority
to be scorned and ridiculed,
only told it was because of color, gender, whatever
and that those were reasons to be spited.

Bless all those who
society had ******
just for existing,
those who's lives are a battleground
and who can still lend a helping hand.

h.f.m.
167 · Aug 2020
biology class
Hannah Marr Aug 2020
I am an afterimage. I am a bisected heart fluttering in half-felt contractions, pinned down to a student’s desk. Somehow there is no blood, only light. Light, softly spilling from my aorta, gentle and insubstantial. You shake your head to dispel it as you turn back to your teacher’s lesson, but I am painted in the space behind your eyelids every time you blink. Your teacher speaks but isn’t really saying anything at all.

Sentiment is one hell of a drug, cradling me docile in the back of the classroom. The box-cutter used to saw open my ribs is abandoned on the floor beside me. They’ll come for my vertebrae next, I think. They’ve already skipped over my eyes in the curriculum, but I’m okay with that. If they had stuck to the class plan, I wouldn’t have the chance to see you cradle my split, sputtering heart in your hand while you trace the inside of my left ventricle with the lightest ghost of touch.

In the back corner seat three rows behind you is an angel. I ask them why their wings hang so low, and they reply, the weight of human expectation. Their feathers twitch when the teacher walks out of the room, flinching when one of the students laughs raucously and declares in a half-heard conversation’s fragment, well, God can fight me behind the Denny’s then. The angel’s face turns pained, blurry, and they whisper for my ears alone, God has no wish to fight you, child. You, three rows ahead and still playing with my heart, are oblivious to their sorrow.

The aftershocks under my skin are a memory. Be gentle, sweet child, be gentle. Only old bones truly sleep.

h.f.m.
167 · Jun 2018
BUILT
Hannah Marr Jun 2018
I'm not broken,
I was built
this way. You
see these shattered
looking pieces? They
were never one
whole. They don't
fit together, they
contradict one another.
Call me a
fallen angel, but
I never fell.
I was this
twisted thing from
the start. Lonely
and draining and
intense and demanding
and there is
no fixing me
because I did
not break in
the first place.
My choices brought
me here, I
became this of
my own free
will. If there's
anything wrong with
me I only
have myself to
blame. I stacked
these faults like
the bricks they
are, building this
trash personality, stitched
together from fictional
scraps left over
from fantasy worlds
that I withdraw
into to escape
these inconsequential issues
that occupy my
weak-willed mind.
Don't pity me
or offer me
compassion because­ that
will only feed
this complex I've
been cultivating in
the da­rk hours
of the night.
I'm not broken,
I was built
this way. You
see?

h.f.m.
166 · Jun 2018
AH, I SEE
Hannah Marr Jun 2018
ah, i see i am spiteful
so frightful
and your pain is delightful
flinching at my every word
it sure is insightful

ah, i see my words are distressing
keep guessing
view them as a blessing!
if you treasure my every word
you'll find this less depressing

ah, i see you think me a *******
some dastard
but if you search my every word
you'll see you have been mastered

ah, i see it in your eyes
you wise?
and how are these lies?
hanging off my every word
now you are my prize

h.f.m.
Hannah Marr Aug 2020
i.
i carry my battles on my sleeve like the heart everyone tells me i hold too bare to keep in one piece as if it is my choice to let everyone see my thoughts and gut-wrenching knowing as if i am some book for them to skim and speak of as if they understand even if they did not read the beginning. do i look like the kind of person who can be anything less than bursting at the seams with knowing and asking and hurting and feeling and wanting and wonder?

ii.
i have a paper due in four hours but instead i’m writing poetry as if that can stem my thoughts and pin my writhing mind down long enough to form something similar to coherence because i can hardly use i was having a bad day as an excuse to hand in fifteen percent of my grade late now can i?

iii.
there are people perched on the rail of my balcony who are snorting stardust as they try to convince me that their backs are ****** because they used to hold wings. they tell me that god loves me and i accept it, but when they tell me i can help save the world i can’t help but look for the lie.

iv.
i would like to believe that someday i could be brave that someday i could be more than scattered thoughts that don’t come out right unless they’re written down and shaking hands that sometimes can hardly hold a pen to paper.

h.f.m.
165 · Jun 2019
WORKING TITLE
Hannah Marr Jun 2019
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.
165 · Jun 2018
I AM AWARE THAT I AM AFRIAD
Hannah Marr Jun 2018
So for the first time
I think I might be consciously aware
of my fear.

Not the feeling of fear, exactly,
but what it is (exactly) that I fear.
I think I know, in a vague sort of way
that I am afraid of endings.

I find myself avoiding my study notes for end of year finals,
not because I think I'll do badly,
(I am confident in A's and B's)
but because it signals a point of no return.

And I'm not afraid of all endings, I don't think.
Leastwise, I'm not afraid of dying.
(Death is the ultimate end, right?)

I just don't want this year to end.
I don't want to graduate,
but I don't want to drop out.
I want to stay in school and keep learning,
continuously,
my future fast approaching and never arriving.

I know I'll fail to keep in touch with friends when summer starts,
so I'll have to start from scratch like I do every year,
and I hate it. I hate it so much, but it never changes.

I know I'll slip into a drowsy, half-awake state day after school end
and this terrifies me,
because I don't know if I'll come back after.
It'd be like being trapped in limbo.

I want to be successful.
I want to grow up, maybe start a family.
At some point I want to live my future,
but can I live in this moment for now?
Can't I move on when I'm ready?

Maybe my real fear is that I'll never be ready.

h.f.m.
164 · Apr 2018
MY NAME IS INGLORIOUS
Hannah Marr Apr 2018
I am too young
Again
Using pictures to define
Myself, describe
Myself, explain
Myself, these words
Can no longer contain
Me, restrain
Me, sustain
Me, remain
In me, I revert back
To the languages of my childhood
(Infancy?)
Images, sounds, emotions, motions
Anything other than these coarse
Words, these ugly
Words, these inglorious
Words, that rend
My too-soft skin
Words that break
My fire-feather bones
"Speak" is synonymous with "Destroy"
And so the word
Is the most lethal weapon of all
I will keep my silence and do no more harm

h.f.m.
163 · Apr 2019
SONNET III
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
161 · Apr 2018
HOW TO BECOME STARLIGHT
Hannah Marr Apr 2018
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.
161 · Nov 2018
STATIONARY REVOLUTION
Hannah Marr Nov 2018
The sun rises and sets
yet it stays still;
the revolution of celestial stars
is motion in appearance only.
I go about my business but
day by day I stay the same,
perfectly still and unchanged.
The illusion of influence
is just as effective as the
effect itself.

h.f.m.
160 · Jun 2018
LAST NIGHT
Hannah Marr Jun 2018
last night was a long
one and nearly painful with
how much rest you didn't
get. in bed at nine
but only half-asleep by
eleven. awake again at quarter
after two and staring at
the ceiling desperately until ten
minutes before your alarm to
pass out again. ten minutes
after you fall asleep you
are ****** awake, heart pounding,
chest heaving, groaning as you
kick off your blankets and
rise from your bed to
struggle through your morning routine.
then you realize you forgot
your breakfast while you are
already halfway out the door.
you decide to leave it
since you were almost late
anyway, which means you almost
have to drag yourself through
the rest of the day.

you want only to sleep.

that was last night, long
and painful as this morning.

h.f.m.
159 · May 2018
IF I WERE TO DIE TODAY
Hannah Marr May 2018
If I were to die today
would I have any
regrets?
Would I wish for a redo
a chance to fix my
mistakes?

If I were to die today
would I feel a sense of
triumph?
Would I look back on
what I have done and feel
pride?

If I were to die today
would anyone
mourn?
Would anyone come
to my funeral and
cry?

If I were to die today
would I want another
life?
Would I wish to be
given a choice to be
reborn?

If I were to die today
would I do it all
again?

h.f.m.
157 · May 2018
DAMN THE BLESSED
Hannah Marr May 2018
**** all those who
got everything they needed in life
right from the womb,
born with a silver spoon in their mouth
and promised more in the future.

**** all those who
inherited that top one percent
as their coming-of-age,
the keys to the world dropped into an uncaring hand
and used as a simple plaything

**** all those who
have been blessed with enough
and more than enough,
but still insist on accumulating more and more and more
and ignoring those they believe are beneath them.

h.f.m.
Hannah Marr May 2018
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.
155 · May 2018
BROKEN DREAMS
Hannah Marr May 2018
The broken dreamer hides the pain.
Everyone knows his name.
But who knows who he is inside?
A ghost adrift, oh poor soul.
He just needs someone to make him whole.

h.f.m.
154 · May 2018
YOU KNOW THAT FEELING...?
Hannah Marr May 2018
You know that feeling when you walk into a room full of purpose
and then instantly forget what you were doing?
The intention, the action, then the frustrated attempt at recollection.
That's how I feel when I wake up.

You know that feeling when you reach the top of a rollercoaster
and your stomach drops before the ride does?
The anticipation, the adrenaline rush, and then you feel sick.
That's how I feel when I step outside my door every morning.

You know that feeling when you're just going about your life
and then you get a sense that something has gone terribly wrong?
The relaxation, the peace, then the chills across your skin.
That's how I feel when I cross the road.

You know that feeling when you are listening to a song
and then one line loops and loops and loops, like a broken record?
The rhythm, the melody, then the repetition (repetition, repetition).
That's how I feel when I speak.

You know that feeling when you get a new pen, put it to paper
and then it glides, tracing letters cleanly and smoothly?
The impact, the initiation, then the ease of creation.
That is how I feel when I write.

h.f.m.
Hannah Marr May 2018
"Aaron, you never told me
what happened that night
since I saved you."

                                                          ­                                                     "No.
                                                            ­                     I never have, have I?"

"You were covered
in blood, and there were
so many bodies.
Will you tell me?"

                                                           ­                                          "I'd rather
                                                          ­                                                     not."

"I can't help
if I don't know."

                                                         ­                                   "I can handle it.
                                                             ­  There is no need to burden you,
                                                            ­           you don't need to help me."

"But I want to help.
I'm your friend.
It is no burden."

                                                                             "You won't believe me."

"Try me."

                                                                                             "It was a spirit,
                                                                                  called to life through
                                                                                                     sacrifices."

"Sacrifices?"

                                                                     "I was kidnapped that night.
                                                                                               Off the street,
                                                                               on my way home from
                                                                                                      a concert.
                                                                                  I had elected to walk,
                                                                              which was my mistake.
                                                                                                  I was taken,
                                                                           along with seven others."

"There were only
two other bodies, though."

                                                                                                        "I know.
                                                                        The spirit took the others."

"What do you mean
when you say spirit?"

                                                                                           "I mean spirit.
                                                                                             Demon, ghost,
                                                                                                I don't know.
                                                                                          It wasn't human,
                                                                     and it had no physical form,
                                                                   but it was called by the blood
                                                                                     of innocent people,
                                                                                and it wreaked havoc.
                                                                   The only thing that stopped it
                                                                                    from taking me too,
                                                             was the fact that you showed up.
                                                                                                          It fled."

"How could it take the others,
if it had no physical form?
Why would it leave you,
just because I came?
I don't understand
how this could be possible."

                                                                              "You don't believe me."

"I'm not sure
what I believe.
I always thought
the police were wrong
when they said it was a mass ******
by a serial killer.
It didn't seem right."

                                                                                     "Because it wasn't."

"Did you tell the police this?"

                                                                            "They didn't believe me.
                                                     Said that the trauma caused my mind
                                                  to come up with a fantastic explanation
                                                  for the pain and fear I had experienced.
                                                                            They didn't believe me."

"I think I would believe you
if I could believe
that this 'spirit' left
because of me,
but I'm not so sure."

                                                                                                      "I'm sure.
                                                                             It had to have been you.
                                                                                 What else was there?"

"...
Thank you for telling me."

                                                                      "I'm not sure you can help."

"We'll see about that."

h.f.m.
153 · Apr 2018
CANVAS/SKIN
Hannah Marr Apr 2018
they run their fingers
(gently)
over the ridges
that twine themselves
across your skin
(like vines, like thorns, like flowers)

knotted flesh-white
a map of hurt and near-misses
(if skin was canvas you could call it art, but it's not, it's not, it's not)
the pain is only a memory now
the driving pain, the unbearable pain, the relieving pain
(it was all just damage, wasn't it?)

they trace
the lines
of white
over and
over and
then they
press their
lips to
rough skin,
soft skin,
a smile
playing at
the corners
of their
mouth—

they tell you that they are proud
not of the scars criss-crossing your wrists
(and thighs, and shoulders, and hips, and)
they are proud that you have survived
that you are still alive
after life did its damndest to
bring
you
down

(after all that you've been through you can now be called a power)

they say, your past is not what you have become
they say, you have nothing to be ashamed of
they say, you are not your scars

h.f.m.
an ode to my friend
152 · Jun 2018
BLASPHEMOUS HUNGER
Hannah Marr Jun 2018
i want to tear the breath from lords
to feel their pulse flutter and fade beneath my fingers

i want to rip kings from their thrones
to feel their bodies shatter beneath my hands

i want to parade on the bones of sultans
to feel a country's strength crumble beneath my feet

i want to pluck the wings off angels
to feel their burning, holy tears on my skin

i want to drink the blood of gods
to feel that bittersweet nectar dripping from my lips

i want to devour the universe whole
to feel that pulsing, raw power in my veins

h.f.m.
152 · May 2018
LIFE LESSONS
Hannah Marr May 2018

1. If you want a job done right, do it yourself. Humans err more often than not. At least you know who to blame if you're the one who messes up.

2. People manipulate. It's in their nature. So don't put anything precious to you in someone else's possession, or they'll use it against you. Keep your own council.

3. Everything ends. Don't try to hold on to anything -life, hope, dreams. All of it will be ripped away eventually.

4. Trust no one. They'll play you, they'll betray you. This is in keeping with Rule 2.

5. You are not in control. These rules would be useful if you could do anything about them, but what you want doesn't matter worth a ****. You can't change the inevitable, despairing end of this story.

h.f.m.
150 · Jun 2019
ON DYING
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.
149 · Aug 2020
THINKING
Hannah Marr Aug 2020
I HAVE BEEN THINKING —THOUGH SINCE I AM A SENTIENT CREATURE OF A PARTICULARLY EXISTENTIAL TEMPERAMENT, THAT IS AN UNNECESSARY STATEMENT BEYOND SIMPLE INTRODUCTION— BUT I HAVE BEEN THINKING AND MY MIND HAS DECIDED TO WANDER ONCE AGAIN DOWN A WELL-TRODDEN PATH OF DECAYED LEAVES AND LEANING TREES AND SHADOWED CREATURES GLIMPSED OUT OF THE CORNER OF AN EYE —A PATH THAT I CANNOT SEEM TO FENCE OFF. MY MIND’S A TRACEUR, AND MENTAL PARKOUR IS UNSURPRISINGLY EFFECTIVE AGAINST THE SIMPLE CHAIN-LINK FENCE ONE MAKES ON THEIR OWN WITH HOME-BAKED COPING MECHANISMS AND INSPIRATIONAL WORDS PASTED OVER OLD WALLPAPER.

I’VE TRIED MY BEST TO CONTAIN THE DAMAGE, BUT OFTEN I FIND MYSELF WRITING IT OFF AS COLLATERAL. I LOSE SEVERAL HOURS, ADRIFT IN MY HEAD DOWN TWISTING PATHS WORN INTO THE FOREST FLOOR BY ANIMALS ARMED WITH TEETH AND CLAWS AND BURNING EYES, AND ALL I CAN DO IS EXCUSE IT, BECAUSE WHO AM I WITHOUT MY OVERACTIVE THOUGHTS? WHAT AM I IF I AM NOT ALWAYS REACHING INWARDS AND OUTWARDS TO TRY AND MAKE SENSE OF THE UNKNOWABLE?

IF IT IS INSANITY, TO REACH FOR WHAT YOU CAN NEVER HAVE AND TO TRY AND KNOW WHAT YOU CAN NEVER UNDERSTAND, THEN I MIGHT VERY WELL BE INSANE. HONSELTY, THERE IS VERY LITTLE I CAN DO TO AVOID IT.

THE ONLY PROBLEM WITH THAT, REALLY, IS THAT I AM LONESOME LIKE THIS.  MY TONGUE TRIPS ON THE TANTALIZING WITTICISMS THAT MIGHT OTHERWISE ENTICE COMPANIONSHIP, CAUGHT UP IN THE COBWEBS OF MY SKITTERING, BRANCHING THOUGHTS. WORDS STUMBLE OVER EACH OTHER IN A SWIFT WHITE-WATER RIVER OF SPEECH THAT HARDLY MAKE IT PAST MY LIPS BEFORE THE NEXT THOUGHT IS WORMING ITS WAY TO THE FOREFRONT.

TIME AND TIME AGAIN, I HAVE BEEN ASKED TO SLOW DOWN, TO TEMPER MYSELF, BUT HOW CAN I EVER SETTLE FOR BEING LESS THAN I AM? I AM LONELY, SURELY, BUT I THINK IT WOULD ONLY BE MORE ISOLATING TO KNOW THE PERSON NEXT TO ME AND KNOW THAT THEY WILL NEVER TRULY COMPREHEND ME IN TURN.

THAT IS OKAY, THOUGH. I WOULD NOT WANT THEM TO TRIP ON THE VINES OF PAST AND PAIN AND COMPOUNDING DEPRECATION THAT WEAVE THEMSELVES THROUGH THE SLIGHTEST GAPS IN MY PSYCHE WHENEVER THE OPPORTUNITY PRESENTS ITSELF. NO ONE DESERVES THAT. IT IS BETTER THAT I AM ALONE.

ALONE WITH MY THOUGHTS.

h.f.m.
149 · Apr 2018
OLD FRIEND
Hannah Marr Apr 2018
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.
Hannah Marr Apr 2018
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.
148 · Jun 2018
THE WALL
Hannah Marr Jun 2018

                There's a wall between us.
I can only hear your voice when
                                                          I'­m pressed flush against it,
                                      every brick imprinted on my skin
                                                    like that one time
           in the school bathroom when
                                             you pinned me and stole my breath away.

                 Your voice is so faint,
                                  so hoarse and broken
       filled with pain.
                                  My heart
                                                    aches every time your voice cracks
                             or you
                                              start coughing until you can't
                       breathe.

What have they done to you
                                      to hurt you like this?
                To take your voice and
                                                             ­         tear it from your throat and
                                                      fill it with so much
                                          dust and thorns.
—and yet.
                                                 And yet.
       Despite the wall.
                     Despite the pain.
                                    Despite it all,
    You still try to laugh and coax
                                                            ­            a laugh out of
                                                 me, and
                                                             ­               you tell story
                                                           ­     after story
                                                           ­               after story
              in an attempt to keep me calm.
                          Even at death's door,
                                              your only concern is for me.

            Can't you see
                                                             ­                    your death
                                is the surest thing to
                                                              ­         break
                                                           me?

                                                         h.f.m.
147 · Jun 2018
MY LATE FRIEND
Hannah Marr Jun 2018
Death, my friend,
why are you so late in coming?
Seventy years will be a bit much
to keep your girl waiting.

Death, my friend,
have you forgotten about me?
I have my papers in order,
I'm ready to go when you are.

Death, my friend,
how long will you leave me on my own?
I'm lonely, you know,
and I miss you a great deal.

Death, my friend,
how much time do I have left?
I want to see the sands in the hourglass
and watch the years, the days slipping away.

Death, my friend,
how long are you going to keep me waiting?
How I wish to return to your embrace,
but I suppose I'll have to be patient a bit longer.

Death, my friend,
are you truly not coming for me?
Are you leaving me to continue this life
to completion, for closure?

Death, my friend,
are you sure about this?
I want to be with you, but if,
as it seems, you insist, I will live on.

For now, then, my friend.

I will see you soon.

h.f.m.
147 · May 2018
DEAR JASON JAMES
Hannah Marr May 2018
The world hasn't been very nice to you, has it?
(For shame, world, for shame.)
It's easy to see as you pour your soul onto the page
that you cannot claim happiness with complete honesty.
And yet...
still you seem to touch a part of me
reserved for my hope in hopeless cases
(namely, myself)
that allows me to believe
that if you,
who seems to have been going strong
for so long,
can continue on...
then why shouldn't I?
You write plainly about pain,
and openly about endings,
but yet...
there is still some element,
some undercurrent,
that speaks of peace in the end,
and a kernel of grace
that can be grasped even in the dark,
at the bottom of a well without the rope to save oneself.
That not only despite your hardships,
but even because of them you can
keep putting one foot in front of the other,
ignoring the broken glass that litters the tar-stained road
representing the adversity you have had to hurdle up to this point
that seems to be the crux of your art,
only serves to provide in me a means to fan a flame
that I thought to have almost gone out.
It saddens me that your pain
is the means to my renewed determination,
but I can't help being gratefully, desperately hopeful.
Because if you can keep living
with the weight on your shoulders
procured over the length of your life
shouldn't I
who has lived half as long
with half as much strife
still be able to struggle on
with my own modest poetry?

In summary,
your words have touched me deeply, Mister Jason James,
and you will never know the depths of my gratitude.
Hope is a hard-won commodity,
and you have succeeded in planting a sprig of it
in my hopeless poet's soul.

h.f.m.
147 · May 2018
MEA VITA (III)
Hannah Marr May 2018

This is the story of a girl who
Picked apart her small-town childhood
Surrounded by mountains and solitude
To settle in a summer-city on a lake
To make her family happy


She doesn't feel at home in her own house
She feels like some semi-permanent fixture
In a half-way home
Belonging to someone else
But that's not the issue

She doesn't feel at all present in her body
She feels transient and temporary
In a liminal form
Destined to be dust
But that isn't the real problem

She questions her ability to form attachments
She wonders if she's healthy to be around
In her unmasked form
Emotionally naked and vulnerable
But that isn't the worst thought

She gets caught up in her own head
She gets lost in her own worlds
In elaborate fantasies
Far preferable to reality
But that isn't the biggest concern

She does not want to exist
She does not want to die, but cease being
In this tumultuous plain
Of painful existence
But she does not know how that can be

h.f.m.
146 · May 2018
MEA VITA (IV)
Hannah Marr May 2018

This is the story of a girl who
Picked apart her small-town childhood
Surrounded by mountains and solitude
To settle in a summer-city on a lake
To make her family happy


Eventually she comes to the conclusion
That many have come to before her
If you cannot take back your beginning
You could choose your end
But she is too much of a coward

She knows she is easily breakable
She could fall out of a tree
Hit her head and get hospitalized
And step out of normal life
But she is too much of a coward

She understands the temperaments of plants
Medicinal and... otherwise
She could simply eat a few
Kiss reality goodbye
But she is too much of a coward

She does not want her family to worry
To concern the only consistent people in her life
She does not want them to take the same path
She does not want to leave them alone
Because she is too much of a coward

She is too afraid of disappointing them
She terrified that they might disown her
She is paralyzed by the thought of their inevitable ends
She does not want to leave them
But she is too afraid to stay

h.f.m.
145 · Mar 2019
SONNET II
Hannah Marr Mar 2019
An endless library the mind might be,
Limetless knowledge well may it posses,
Not so a place of such tranquility,
Never even once a place of true rest.
A nest of demons reside in the stacks,
Sharpening their claws on the wooden shelves,
Skill'd in subterfuge, with ease hide their tracks
Below consciousness, where surface thought delves.
Tattered pages flutter through quiet aisles,
Air pregnant with waiting and dark intent,
Then sudden hostility and sharp smiles
Where wishes and hopefullness make no dent.
I am lost in the halls of my own mind
And don't want to know what's here to find.

h.f.m.
145 · Jun 2018
HERO TO REST
Hannah Marr Jun 2018
pale eyes, pale eyes,
what do you see?
under those curling locks,
soul swamped in misery?

soft hands, soft hands,
what do you feel?
a spirit torched with sorrow
struggling to heal?

scarred lungs, scarred lungs,
what's in your breath?
misted blood and iron dust,
a knife marked with death?

brittle heart, brittle heart,
what is your desire?
to strive for one last chance
or to finally meet the pyre?

blue lips, blue lips,
what are your last words?
do you wish to be freed
to soar among the birds?

h.f.m.
145 · Jun 2018
LITTLE GIRL
Hannah Marr Jun 2018
There was a little girl
six years ago
who braided her sisters' hair
with dandelions and lilies
and other pretty things.

She sang a little rhyme
as her fingers danced
and her little sisters, sitting
were wholly entranced.


There was a little girl
five years ago
who played piano with finesse
and took lessons with her sisters
so they could play together.

She sang a little rhyme
as her fingers danced
and her little sisters, sitting
were wholly entranced.


There was a little girl
four years ago
who stitched her sisters' teddies
with blue and yellow thread
when they tore during play.

She sang a little rhyme
as her fingers danced
and her little sisters, sitting
were wholly entranced.


There was a little girl
three years ago
who taught sisters how to turn
shadows into puppets
to keep fear of dark at bay.

She sang a little rhyme
as her fingers danced
and her little sisters, sitting
were wholly entranced.


There was a little girl
two years ago
who plucked guitar strings
as opposed to her sisters' piano
and her brother's violin.

She hummed a little rhyme
as her fingers danced
and she stayed behind
while her siblings advanced.


There was a little girl
one year ago
who looked at her dancing fingers
and wondered why they couldn't hold on
to the quick-slipping time.

h.f.m.
144 · May 2018
DREAM-THINGS
Hannah Marr May 2018
Am I a dream-thing?
(Common Characteristics of Dreams:
INTENSE EMOTIONS
FreqUently diSorgANized and IllogiCal
Difficult... to... remember...
Content Is Accepted Without Question)


Is my life a dream-thing?
(Common Themes in Dreams:
------Being chased
P a r a l y s i s
Someone dead, alive
Someone alive, dead

Falling

Falling

Falling)


Is reality, really, a dream-thing?
(Common Misconceptions About Dream-Things:
Perceived as True [what is this 'Truth?']
Remembered as Absolute [your mind really rewrites, and rewrites]
Is tangible [by our own laws, we know nothing actually touches]
Is ALIVE ['breathing' does not equate 'life'])


If the above are dream-things, than in whose dream are they?

h.f.m.
144 · May 2018
MEA VITA (V)
Hannah Marr May 2018

This is the story of a girl who
Picked apart her small-town childhood
Surrounded by mountains and solitude
To settle in a summer-city on a lake
To make her family happy


In the end she tells her mom
That she is feeling anxious
That she wants to quit school
That she wants to stop socializing
That she wants to stop

In the end her mom gives her
Some advice about stress
Some sleeping meds
Some respite from commitments
Some comfort

In the end she feels a bit better, but
Not like normal
Not at the place she needs to be
Not healthy mentally
Not whole

In the end she acts fine
So she can see if anyone even notices
So her mom can stress less
So she can tell if she is strong enough
So she can decide if she is worth it

In the end she knows she'll die someday, but
She made a promise
She knows her psychology
She knows she is supported and loved
She knows she can get better

h.f.m.
142 · May 2018
TRAUMA
Hannah Marr May 2018
Paranoia pondered the cruelty of war
Stalked by haunting visages of bullets flying past
Clutched at the last stray memories of the happiest times
When saint and sinner walked side by side
Paranoia pleaded with the skeletons of wartime
Sensitive to the tyranny in the streets
To trade pain for peace
And trials for trust
But the speech went unheeded
Breath gone to waste
The carnivorous dogs of war feasted on hate and fear and lies
They're in the cities and the countryside, wreaking havoc  
A threat of human design we dare not confront
We riot in the streets over small things
And are too ashamed to speak for the victims of our own making

h.f.m.
Hannah Marr Aug 2020
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 burning 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 onward, 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.
142 · Apr 2018
I'M COPING
Hannah Marr Apr 2018
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.
141 · Oct 2019
WRATH IN FOUR PARTS
Hannah Marr Oct 2019
i.
it is so much easier to write rage to write anger to write agony than all of those fluff-feelings of joy-love-peace-hope and i have a truth for you and pain is not sweet and we always want to turn blood into paint for a masterpiece as if our suffering is fair trade for our passion and and and—

ii.

my mouth is a wolf’s maw full of sharp and bone and hunger and i wonder what satisfied means and i wonder how you dare speak to me like you know me like you know anything about me like fact and truth are equals like absolute power is anything but the most concentrated form of weakness like—

iii.
9-year-old me listens with such innocence, such naivety, such sickening hope as i tell her a tale of redemption and happy endings but now the world is burning and people are dying and i am being ****** into a stagnant role under the title maturity and civil responsibility and if this is growing up then give me back the youthful fury of my teenage years where i believed that my voice meant something and my actions made a difference and that i deserved my righteous indignation at the world trying to condition me into using my will and my desire and my skill and my love for the sake of everything and everyone but myself while i try to beat my quivering into the shape of something of use.

iv.
my hands are shaking but i will take the fire itself into my hands if that is what it takes for you to listen.

h.f.m.
141 · Jun 2018
FOGGY MIRROR
Hannah Marr Jun 2018
Wrapped in a towel
Clutching the sides of the sink
She gazes into the mirror

The shower has fogged the glass
But faint impressions still bleed through

Her face a
Honey-brown framed
Pale oval
Inlaid with
Two grey flecks
Under arched brows
With underlying shadows

Faint imprint of cheekbones
Jawline
That hollow of the throat
Collarbones

All shadows
Ideas
Obscured by condensation
Wreathed in man-made mist

The concept of a person
Rather than the person herself

h.f.m.
140 · Jun 2018
HIRAETH
Hannah Marr Jun 2018
noun

1. it's funny how you miss a place that you never really felt like you lived in. a decade in a snowy mountain town can pass on to the next on a valley-lake. neither is home. you don't know what the word means.

2. you thought it was the house and town of your childhood that you longed for, but on the long weekend you went to visit and realized you hadn't any roots there from the start. no places you want to see again, except for that lake that is a mirror of all lakes. no friends you missed, at least not from this sky-community of music and charm. you realize you miss friends you've never made. there is an untouchable sorrow in that.

3. so if this homesickness does not stem from places you know, are you wishing for a home not on this plane of existence? is there somewhere else that you long to be, that you cannot hope to return to while you walk on the surface of this world? but how can you leave when bound here?

4. this world has weight, gravity pulling at your bones. the ground threatens to swallow you up, and you wonder what it is like to be buried in the bowels of the earth. if there is a gate beneath the crust to your true home, the home of your spirit, would it be found there?

h.f.m.
Hannah Marr May 2018
"Hey, Aaron.                                                           ­                                     
If I die, I want                                                             ­                                 
to be buried in                                                               ­                             
a fluorescent pink suit."                                                           ­                 

                                                               ­                               "If you die?"

"Yeah. And
after the funeral and all                                                              ­              
cremate me                                                               ­                                   
and beat my carbon-ash                                                       ­                     
into a sword                                                            ­                                  
so my descendants                                                      ­                              
can avenge me."                                                             ­                           

                                                               ­                             "Avenge you?
                                                                ­                What happened to the
                                                                ­              fluorescent pink suite?"

"Burn the suite with me.      
And yeah, avenge. 
I ain't gonna die                                                              ­                            
unless I'm killed."                                                         ­                               

                                                               ­                                               "That
            ­                                                             is not how it works, Terry.
                                                          ­                      We all die eventually."

"Not me.                                                              ­                                          
I'm immortal."                                                       ­                                     

                                                               ­                            "Are you high?"

"Nah.     
Too busy for that."        

                                                 ­                    "I can't believe you said that.
                                                           ­                             You of all people.
                                                         ­                          Too busy with what,
                                                           ­                                             exactly?"

"Vita, my friend."          

                                             ­                                                             "Li­fe?
                                                            ­                                            In Latin,
                                                                ­                         a dead language.
                                                       ­                                              The irony.
                                                          ­                        Am I supposed to be
                                                              ­                laughing or groaning?"

"Like I care.                                                            ­                                      
But seriously,                                                       ­                                       
remember the suit
and the cremation."                                                      ­                              

                                 ­                                                       "You planning on
                                                              ­                          goading someone
                                                         ­                              enough to **** you
                                                             ­                               anytime soon?"

"You never know.                                                            ­                          
Better safe than sorry."                                                          ­                    

                                           ­                                                         "If you die,
                                                            ­                                        that means
                                                           ­                                            you were
                                                            ­                                             not safe
                                                            ­                                   and definitely
                                                      ­                                                      sorry."

"W­hy do you think                        
I'll be sorry?                                                           ­                                   
It will probably be                                                               ­                     
a thousand years                                                            ­                            
from now."                                                            ­                                      

                         ­                                                                 ­   "Then why ask
                                                             ­                                       me to plan
                                                            ­                                   your funeral?
                                                        ­                                   I have a normal
                                                          ­                                             life span.
                                                           ­                                 I won't be alive
                                                           ­                                  when you die."

"Didn't you know?                                                            ­                        
You're immortal too."                                                            ­                  

h.f.m.
137 · May 2018
MEA VITA (II)
Hannah Marr May 2018

This is the story of a girl who
Picked apart her small-town childhood
Surrounded by mountains and solitude
To settle in a summer-city on a lake
To make her family happy


But before I tell that story
You need to know she is numb
And distantly aware
And wants more than anything
To not be a disappointment

Sure, there’s the part where
She drew into herself
With her nose in a book
Searching for happy endings
But that comes later

Yes, eventually she wondered if
She was a good friend and
Started avoiding people
To protect them from herself
But that comes later

There’s the part in the night when
She swore up and down to her mother
That she’d hold it together
Until she was nineteen
But that comes much later

There might even be a part
Where she can’t even breathe
And she closes her eyes
So if she dies her family doesn't have to
But that comes near the end.

h.f.m.
134 · Jun 2018
RUNNING
Hannah Marr Jun 2018

                                        The air tastes of running
                                               kicked up dust and
                                                             ­           bleeding lungs.
                   You left your blond hair in a gas station bathroom.
                             You left more than that farther back.
                                                           Family.
                   Integrity.
                                                      ­                                      Freedom.
                  ­                  Oh, pariah, fugitive.
                                                       Your feet are never still.
                        Where are you going?
     Where are you running from?
                                      What are you becoming?

                                                      ­     h.f.m.
134 · May 2018
LOST
Hannah Marr May 2018
Disconnected, floating
My mind is miles away
And I don't know how to return to myself
I am trapped in dreamland

h.f.m.
Next page