meg-howell - Hello Poetry

I am writing this using a pen that was oh-so-kindly gifted to me by a kind old lady. She also gave me a cookie, but that’s beside the point. I think she knows that the best way to bribe college students is through food. I’m standing at the table beside a girl who I THINK is in one of my classes, but I still am not quite certain. She is the kind of athletic and strong that screams “this is the confidence that you’ll never have”. We’re both being shown a piece of paper with a minimal amount of writing on it, but an infinite amount of pure heart. The paper says a sweet word about prayer and doing well on finals and all that, but my focus is on the excessive amount of exclamation marks at the end of each sentence. I guess Presbyterians really are the Oprah Winfreys of religion. I forgot to mention that the old lady is Presbyterian. She is advertising a fall bible study led by college students, which, if I were not plagued with the constant assumption that I’ll never know how to socialize or make friends, I would be absolutely enthralled by. The truth is that I’ve been trying to get “plugged in” for a while now, but how can I get plugged in when my wire is frayed and everything I touch seems to smoke and burn at some point? My plug is a circle and the outlet is a square, so I guess it’s like that saying, “A circle can’t fit into a round peg”, or something like that. Anyways, I didn’t mean for this to become an analogy between being disconnected and electrical outlets, but it turned out that way. The old lady at the booth was nice. I hope to someday be that lovely. Although I was around her for a total of thirty seconds, I saw what it’s like to live a life not shrouded in a black cloud of fear. So, thank you, lady.

0

Jul 16, 2018

Jul 16, 2018 at 10:59 PM UTC

The Old Lady at the Booth

I am writing this using a pen that was oh-so-kindly gifted to me by a kind old lady. She also gave me a cookie, but that’s beside the point. I think she knows that the best way to bribe college students is through food. I’m standing at the table beside a girl who I THINK is in one of my classes, but I still am not quite certain. She is the kind of athletic and strong that screams “this is the confidence that you’ll never have”. We’re both being shown a piece of paper with a minimal amount of writing on it, but an infinite amount of pure heart. The paper says a sweet word about prayer and doing well on finals and all that, but my focus is on the excessive amount of exclamation marks at the end of each sentence. I guess Presbyterians really are the Oprah Winfreys of religion. I forgot to mention that the old lady is Presbyterian. She is advertising a fall bible study led by college students, which, if I were not plagued with the constant assumption that I’ll never know how to socialize or make friends, I would be absolutely enthralled by. The truth is that I’ve been trying to get “plugged in” for a while now, but how can I get plugged in when my wire is frayed and everything I touch seems to smoke and burn at some point? My plug is a circle and the outlet is a square, so I guess it’s like that saying, “A circle can’t fit into a round peg”, or something like that. Anyways, I didn’t mean for this to become an analogy between being disconnected and electrical outlets, but it turned out that way. The old lady at the booth was nice. I hope to someday be that lovely. Although I was around her for a total of thirty seconds, I saw what it’s like to live a life not shrouded in a black cloud of fear. So, thank you, lady.

1

The grandeur and intensity I have felt recently has clouded my mind like a fog brushing the top of a mountain at dawn. The romanticization of our shared aspirations and desperation has left me mesmerized and hypnotized like the effects of a magician performing a conjuration. Not meaning to sound as cliche or pretentious as I know this will, you are my idea of a vacation. What u mean by this is that, when I’m near you, I want to stay this way until the inevitable sands of time run out. But I can’t. I can’t because most of life is work and you are my relaxation. You are a cup of hot tea when the icicles reign supreme outside. One day, I will see you every day. Even then, I know I won’t want those days to end. But end they must. So we face the test of time, wearing infatuation and admiration as our weapons, fighting the clocks and schedules that trail so closely behind. We fight and we fight and we fight.

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Mar 21, 2018

Mar 21, 2018 at 10:50 PM UTC

Song Sung to the Tune of a Stopwatch

The grandeur and intensity I have felt recently has clouded my mind like a fog brushing the top of a mountain at dawn. The romanticization of our shared aspirations and desperation has left me mesmerized and hypnotized like the effects of a magician performing a conjuration. Not meaning to sound as cliche or pretentious as I know this will, you are my idea of a vacation. What u mean by this is that, when I’m near you, I want to stay this way until the inevitable sands of time run out. But I can’t. I can’t because most of life is work and you are my relaxation. You are a cup of hot tea when the icicles reign supreme outside. One day, I will see you every day. Even then, I know I won’t want those days to end. But end they must. So we face the test of time, wearing infatuation and admiration as our weapons, fighting the clocks and schedules that trail so closely behind. We fight and we fight and we fight.

2

Fragile hands, Weathered and cracked, Grasping onto the neck of the swan They are tough, Yet, all the while, their reach is gentle, And they glide with the swan to the pond’s lively middle Up Up they go Ricocheting off the dancing beads of water doing the tango, the salsa, and, at last, ballroom.

0

Mar 21, 2018

Mar 21, 2018 at 6:36 PM UTC

A Dance

Fragile hands, Weathered and cracked, Grasping onto the neck of the swan They are tough, Yet, all the while, their reach is gentle, And they glide with the swan to the pond’s lively middle Up Up they go Ricocheting off the dancing beads of water doing the tango, the salsa, and, at last, ballroom.

16

The toils of my hands, The marks of my work, I’m meant to find pleasure in these Solomon’s words, Gentle and stern, Have genuinly provoked me

0

Mar 21, 2018

Mar 21, 2018 at 6:28 PM UTC

Songs

The toils of my hands, The marks of my work, I’m meant to find pleasure in these Solomon’s words, Gentle and stern, Have genuinly provoked me

6

My hands, my eyes, my heart They’ve done me wrong in this time of need I control these things, therefore, I let these things control me And now I’m desperately searching for an escape, a peace You are the refuge My luxury in a sea of mediocrity And I cry out to the sky, For my core is rotten, I’m a dying pig swarmed with flies, choking on cotton But with you I’m not forgotten, I’ll never be forgotten, Renew my broken heart That’s all I crave

0

Mar 21, 2018

Mar 21, 2018 at 6:23 PM UTC

A Cry

My hands, my eyes, my heart They’ve done me wrong in this time of need I control these things, therefore, I let these things control me And now I’m desperately searching for an escape, a peace You are the refuge My luxury in a sea of mediocrity And I cry out to the sky, For my core is rotten, I’m a dying pig swarmed with flies, choking on cotton But with you I’m not forgotten, I’ll never be forgotten, Renew my broken heart That’s all I crave

14

A sour cherry, The juice of a berry, A broken canary, A lullaby Snow covered trees, The nest of honeybees, A cat with fleas, A scene Hands interlocked, Traditional love mocked, Insecurities docked, A dream

0

Mar 21, 2018

Mar 21, 2018 at 6:18 PM UTC

Pasture

A sour cherry, The juice of a berry, A broken canary, A lullaby Snow covered trees, The nest of honeybees, A cat with fleas, A scene Hands interlocked, Traditional love mocked, Insecurities docked, A dream

12

Is this an outer-body experience Or a pretentious subsistence There’s a dog barking at my built-up wall Forming a pattern of careful consistence I’ve never broken a heart but I’ve broken every plan I’ve chosen to mess with I’m slowly downing this regret and distrust like it’s freshly poured absinth The sickness comes right away, which I oddly knew to begin with I say that I’ll change someday, but I think I’ll probably stay this way After all, I’m happy When the salt isn’t in my wounds After I’ll, I’m happy When I’m sitting here with you

0

Mar 21, 2018

Mar 21, 2018 at 2:08 PM UTC

Try to Understand

Is this an outer-body experience Or a pretentious subsistence There’s a dog barking at my built-up wall Forming a pattern of careful consistence I’ve never broken a heart but I’ve broken every plan I’ve chosen to mess with I’m slowly downing this regret and distrust like it’s freshly poured absinth The sickness comes right away, which I oddly knew to begin with I say that I’ll change someday, but I think I’ll probably stay this way After all, I’m happy When the salt isn’t in my wounds After I’ll, I’m happy When I’m sitting here with you

13

Staring through a frosted window At a girl that is paper thin Heart on her sleeve, chained to a pen Crimson blood poured onto paper Forming words out of alphabet soup She cannot decide, she cannot choose The words form themselves Whether she’s happy with them or not

0

Mar 21, 2018

Mar 21, 2018 at 2:04 PM UTC

Murky

Staring through a frosted window At a girl that is paper thin Heart on her sleeve, chained to a pen Crimson blood poured onto paper Forming words out of alphabet soup She cannot decide, she cannot choose The words form themselves Whether she’s happy with them or not

8

A daily riddle has come to mind Where abstract words break an abstract mind Things once healed Fall apart After the moon hits the golden mark Dilapidated eyes hear harsh lullabies But no baby cries No baby cries Just you and I Cries fit for the night The dubious night The doubtful night The dangerous night Our bittersweet night

0

Mar 21, 2018

Mar 21, 2018 at 1:56 PM UTC

After Midnight

A daily riddle has come to mind Where abstract words break an abstract mind Things once healed Fall apart After the moon hits the golden mark Dilapidated eyes hear harsh lullabies But no baby cries No baby cries Just you and I Cries fit for the night The dubious night The doubtful night The dangerous night Our bittersweet night

14

I took a walk down a sloping path Trees and brambles, nature’s bloodbath My hands, a guide My eyes, a map My mouth, drooling and drawn to that amber sap The ground below finally led me there A trusted fort, a quiet town square A lonely whistle serenading the unsoiled air A symmetrical tree sat waiting like a snare For me to take its’ paragon But, oh, do I even dare?

0

Mar 21, 2018

Mar 21, 2018 at 1:51 PM UTC

Nana’s Backyard

I took a walk down a sloping path Trees and brambles, nature’s bloodbath My hands, a guide My eyes, a map My mouth, drooling and drawn to that amber sap The ground below finally led me there A trusted fort, a quiet town square A lonely whistle serenading the unsoiled air A symmetrical tree sat waiting like a snare For me to take its’ paragon But, oh, do I even dare?

11