hallie-jo
I had a another profile a little while ago under the same name that I closed down for personal reasons, but I couldn't stand to be away. Poetry is meant to be shared, or I feel there is little purpose. / About me: / I am a bit mad... but who isn't? / Amanda Palmer is the best. / Perks of Being a Wallflower is my favorite book. / "If you never do, you'll never know." is my mantra, although better described as a goal. / I spend my extra time and money on music and rock climbing. / Extra time and money is slim. / Sociology major / I want to be an occupational therapist later in life (astronaut was in close second) / Oh yeah, and enjoy my poetry. / / "If you have, give. If you need, ask." / / (insert Copyright and other legal stuff here I guess)
Why, when a baby cries,
we feel potential.
Like we know that his life
is the best its ever going to be
right now.
And we ponder telling them
that it only gets worse
but we stop short,
fearing maybe then he'll never stop.
But life does become better-- meaningful.
Sometimes.
However if when we are born
it is a marvelous accident,
then why do we scoff at oblivion.
Why do we strive to be more
than those who came before
and why the hell
are we concerned with disproving
heaven.
Why exactly can we find meaning
in a place that was formed out of chaos.
Why, when we see a baby laugh,
do we smile back.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 5:56 PM UTC
Debating if their
Way of being in a relationship
Is correct; for common belief consisted
Of believing in
Love. Not simply discussing
The way it should be. If
We focus only on that, it
Seems we ask ourselves, if it even truly existed.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 9:14 PM UTC
Pen on paper.
Makes eardrums ring to hear
What she's writing
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC
She says
“Yes.”
Vaguely apparent.
Tension tightly traverses
Through my body
“Yes, give me that”
Five dollars in a parking lot.
Teeth rotting.
Amber from thoughts long forgotten.
Five minutes for five dollars.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 12:27 PM UTC
my love
i love the idea of you
love the way you hold yourself
when your talking to me
the way you lean close
the way you look into my eyes
i love the sense of you
as you fill up a room you have just walked into
with that joyful playful soul song gentle laugh you have
i love the way even the sound of your footsteps
makes my heart flutter
i love the idea of you
the way your hair is in the wind
the way you reach up with one hand and set
it softly back to perfection
the way your hair smells of strawberries when im holding you
i love the idea of you
in the rain you giggle as you hurry in heels
and how easy the warmth of your smile comes
to share itself with everyone around us
like you nourish the world with your sweet heart
the way you whisper to me when we have
made love and are drifting off to dreams
i love everything about the idea of you
and every day you show me
the reality of you is even more
i love you my love
i love you
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 1:27 PM UTC
Why can't I trust
That all you say is true.
I truly can't believe
That the truth could sound this good.
I hate the reservations I have
Toward those who have reservations
To see and feel my emotions.
Appointments with the person
Whose personality is not as personally oriented
As some would like it to be.
But don't assume you know me
Because assuming just creates types
Which I try to undo with these types
That I pour my soul into;
But they somehow only seem to fit perfectly
Under perfected soles of shoes.
And do not try to read between these lines
For I often do not foresee these foretelling's endings.
I perceive that under these pretenses
Which do seem to be a bit false
I may leave a conversation abruptly
Trying to preserve my reputation and not make this situation
Worse.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 1:26 PM UTC
The future is an unpredictable at best,
Never tired of feasting on my nerves.
My untitled foe continuing my misery,
Making me feel less and less human
The only comfort coming from the trees
Offering me a taste of their freedom.
By the view of their branches.
Tasting freedom is lonely.
And I can't hardly handle being alone this long
Convinced I am worth only pennies.
But the space between my ears is full of ideas.
And this is simply a window to view them
Thoughts for a penny,
As my worth degrades.
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 11:28 AM UTC
the problem with
being a poet in love,
is that you savour
& trust each word your lover has
without question.
we are simply in love
with bare literature,
spoken from the lips of someone we hold
in higher regard
than ourselves sometimes.
when you love a poet
each word you utter,
should be a piece of artwork
each sentence,
a highly thought out structure of awe and beauty to leave us seeping
in the warmth of your voice
caressing such fine words
so when deciding that you love someone,
who writes or reads
fill their souls with beauty, memories & truth especially,
for a poet's heart breaks at ease.
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 11:21 AM UTC
There was a sense of wonder as I wandered through my childhood, gazing up, knowing the trees never ended.
There is tranquility where none previously existed.
There was disappointment when the fence was discovered.
There was a splendid sense of bliss hidden in the clouds among the alligators and elephants.
There were smiles there.
There was patience there.
There was poetry.
There were smiles.
There was music.
There were phone calls that lasted upwards of an hour.
There were times the phone never rang.
There was a need for change that burned so deep, if not sated would choke its way out.
There was self-creation, cut and carved out of the mold.
There were few words spoken and the ones that were usually wished they could take the first plane out of town.
There was coffee.
There is coffee.
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 11:20 AM UTC
Woman,
Too old for her age,
Constant frown engrained,
Into her once beautiful face,
Telling of lost love
And trials in her difficult life.
She taught me,
To prevent what plagued her
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 10:19 AM UTC