Try me!
Nothing you do will ever make me quit,
Just as nothing I do will ever stop you.
So come at me and have at me!

I have grown tired of your rights,
as you are weary of mine!
I have been silent for far too long,
and you have been preaching more than enough!

Now get down here, and face me!
Leave your crown behind,
We will fight blind,
and let me show you true bravery!

Or we can go to war, my friend,
your hounds, and my army!
Let us paint this world crimson red,
as we charge into this endless battle!

Give me that iron bludgeon,
and I will return with a concrete fist!
Feed me walls of smoke,
and I will send you floors of fire!

Do me your worst,
and shall you see the worse from me.
Stop me in my walk,
and I will paralyze you in your wake.

And when your guts are finally there to get you,
come find me, and **** me!
Throw me down off a cliff, and
send them a distress call!

For I was not killed by the fall,
and as long as you live,
Know that the only way I'll die,
is standing true, and standing tall!

My house is not new, but not particularly old
But it feels as though lifetimes are weaven through its folds
Memories, so simple we forget
It stores them all, like a safety net
I remember when we had party
One of my relatives, couldn't find her car keys
I remember when the moon was blood red
I was outside, looking until I was forced to bed
I remember when I laughed so hard I cried
My sides hurt so much, but I just sighed
All these memories, the house never lets them go
Simple, small but wonderful
My house, my home, my memories.
And they never go.

It's hard to write a poem
When there's nothing going on
It's hard to think of what to say
When you've given most of it away

As poets we never scratch the surface
We delve within, disclose our deepest sin
We crave our pain, declare it's for our art
Yet more often than not have no idea where to start

But start we do and start we must
A deep desire in all of us
To spill out on the written page
What little bit we have tried to save

Ink now is the poets blood
Fragments of self pour from within
Silence is our safety net
To stop us from bleeding out

Although it's hard to write a poem
With nothing going on
We still find words to form a verse
From deep within our marrow bone

Work © Mike Hauser & © Sia Jane

i think it's hard to be friends or lovers with a writer. here's why:

1) you have to be careful of what you say, because the writers mostly take every word of yours literally and try to find the meaning in it. say what you mean, and mean what you say.

2) you also have to be wary of your grammar. those people, whom you know as writers, are grammar nazis. if they don't correct you in speech, fret not; it has been done in their word-mazed minds.

3) they will rant and rant and rant, because written words are what cool them off without having them to speak aloud. curse words, words which carry a tune, words which burn into brains... hear them out. do not be lazy to read their rants if they trust you with it. (they could rant about you TO YOU in the end.)

4) this is the hardest part. just remember that they will write about you no matter who you are or what you've done (or maybe you haven't even done anything). these people will write about how they see you. and most of the time, those writings are not so favorable. if you do not want to (literally) end up in their bad books, beware. their words may not last in ink forever but embedded into the hearts of those who read them.

happy reading and living with a reader!

Some girls like me are full of heartache and poetry and those are the kind of girls who try to save wolves instead of running away from them

At 3:20PM, I collapse into my bed with my Ipad light blaring.
I daydream of happiness.
Taken away from me by every day people,
Who I was made to learn their names.
Drawers left open with their contents spilling out,
As I stuff my clothes in there,
In an effort to clean up.
It doesn't work.

Jumping onto my bed to avoid the ghouls lurking underneath,
As shadows jump out at me in my mind.
Too afraid to close my eyes,
My insecurities are shown in my eyes to those that look.
These are Night Terrors.
I don't have to be asleep to get them,
It doesnt even have to be night.
When I'm alone, bullied and afraid.
They come.
These are Night Terrors,
That show in the light.
That play in my mind,
Every day, Every night.

Sleeping is stressful,
But as the day progresses, you wish for your bed.
But when you get there, you're wide awake.
Being at School is stressful.
But when you get to your bed, you wish to be there.
But when you're at school, Your will is broken.
Everything is stressful,

When You Get Night Terrors.

That show in the daylight.

I know I'm not poetic,
Just typing what jumps out to me.
Its not prophetic,
Its easy you see.

People say its hard to write,
Rhyming all the time.
I defeat that, with a fight,
All you need is to Rhyme.

I'm messed up,
Mix-matched too.
But its not anything like the flu,
Its just me, and thats true.

This is just a poem,
Making the truth shown.
Beautiful and solem,
No need for post-pone.

In the cascading shadows of the moon,
I'll be there holding your hand.
Whether it be morning or noon,
I'll be there for you, My friend.