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29.2k · May 2018
Is this art?
Hannah Christina May 2018
Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?
Problems only We True Artists face.
14.6k · Aug 2018
Whirlwind and Graveyard Calm
Hannah Christina Aug 2018
Too much, too fast.
Breathless at a stoplight.
Always with the rushing, barely feeling, barely knowing where I am.

Now there's nothing.

It's a break, slow and stale.
What do I do?
There are four or five things maybe but none feel right and I can't bring myself to move.
I try one thing,
then another.
No drive,
Not even my eyes can focus on anything.
Skipping, blinking, nothing.

Give me back the whirlwind, or give me gravelike nothing.
Nothing is right.
I need power to feel and peace to fight or I am already dead.
I'm trusting You.
Thanks so much for reading, it means a lot.

Honestly, I'm not feeling much better for the moment.  Things were getting a bit slow this afternoon and the Gravelike paragraph applied for like two hours, but I pulled myself out of it and I'm okay now.  Let's see how long the feeling of well being lasts this time...
11.3k · Sep 2018
Tales of Three Kites
Hannah Christina Sep 2018
I bought myself a kite to fly
I tossed it up and ran around
I tried to pull it through the sky
But found it just dragged on the ground.

It landed in the mud, it was mangled, it was done
And thus concludes the tragic tale of the kite I numbered one.

My second kite was different.
It caught a mighty gale
I flew it well, then let it go
And in the end I failed.

It joined released balloons and leaves, whatever else is there
In the *****, lonely cloudland in the out-of-picture air.

I still had hope and so I bought
My final silken bird
I told myself that I would soon
Unleash it to the word.

The kite's debut date got pushed back and further back until
It found a final resting place untested in its skill.

I bought myself three kites to fly
The first two meet ill fates
The third one has a dusty shelf
Where it keeps very safe.
Of dreams and men.

I'll probably change the title and maybe edit more, we'll see.  This was honestly in my drafts for like over two months.  I wanted to finally publish it.
Hannah Christina Jul 2018
It's not the shadows themselves that are alive.
The darkened places are where you hide the thoughts you dare not face.

What did you expect?
2.8k · Jul 2018
The Lonely Old Woman's House
Hannah Christina Jul 2018
Magazines, newspapers, letters strewn across
every table.
Flowerpots, paperweights, nick-knacks atop
every remaining empty surface.
"Tacky" was the word that first came to mind.
Ledges, counters, and all but one chair are drowned in the mess.
The last chair is the womans.  She used to keep a few other chairs vacant in case of company, but
as she continued to grow slower she couldn't make the effort

and an extra chair was never needed anyway.
Us teenagers thing we're so edgy and tortured.  All this time, the friendless old ladies been the real heavy souls
2.5k · May 2018
Hannah Christina May 2018
A shuddered sigh, then some hope inhaled.
A wince of distrust, yet a heart unveiled.
A cautious smile leaves a little too late.
And a hopeful look rises to the bait.
A tensed up brow begins to relax,
For peace and joy have been too long taxed.
Sorrow still lurks in the back of the mind,
But reluctantly it is left behind.
A cautious faith is restored anew
And I open myself
back up
to you.
2.5k · Jun 2018
Hannah Christina Jun 2018
Because a thing may seem cliche won't mean it isn't right.
Warm sunbeams, drumbeat thunder, and the clash of dark and light.
Or just because it's overused, don't say it can't be true.
Old words and phrases well describe my burning love for you.
2.4k · Aug 2018
Searching for Passion
Hannah Christina Aug 2018
There's a reason why I'm doing this
Somewhere, somehow
I set off with a passion and a purpose
That seems so long ago.
I decided it was worth it, not to wither into a selfish nothing
To surge on, keep on grappling
but I've almost had enough
and I'm
When will I find the spark again?
I have some faith that
an ember of the passion I lost
still exists
somewhere between my lungs and beneath my ribs
Can my faith be ever enough?
May I find out.
I found out they the name of the place the heart is located is a " thoracic compartment called the mediastinum" but decided using that phrase would have been a bit much to use here.

Maybe another day.
2.1k · Sep 2018
Dancing out of step
Hannah Christina Sep 2018
rhythm inside me that I want  craft fire to
But I never can keep up with the ticking clock


wall that obstructs my view I want to see higher yet
What if I climb until I find out I don't like what's at the top?

One day I'll step out of line and ignore the warden who drags me back
I'll climb the tree next to the wall and dance along the top
But for now each day pulls me in a struggle unyielding
It would be a dance if my mind could process all that keeps proceeding

If I could pause it for a beat perhaps I could find my feet
But the game gets faster while I just get more confused.

I suppose I'll get used to it.  Will it always be this way?
and does it feel the same somehow to everybody else?
I want to dance perfectly
in a way that's new and full of life and my own very soul

but head down I keep dozing to miss out on the pain and I shut my eyes
Squint over the wall's holes.
Thank you sincerely for reading.

Oh, and I think I'll mention that the idiosyncrasies in rhythm and rhyming scheme were intentional.
1.8k · Jun 2018
Hannah Christina Jun 2018
I don't mean to only express myself
Let's turn our gaze outward to something else
Because really, we're nothing
reflections and vapors
our lives seem so long to us then as time tapers
down to the end
getting faster again
and it's time that, my friend
in this time that you spend
looking out for yourself realize your wealth and your life and your thoughts they are
I'm nothing at all but a freckle of dust
but looking around there are millions of us
there's a picture out there taking shape so we must
have courage and dare to strip off all our lust for
our own affirmation
our self-presentation
must find a foundation in something much bigger than us.
As you cry to be heard pause and listen to hear
for when long you have listened the Light will draw near
and you'll find all the words that you cannot deserve
so please gather the nerve discontent to preserve
And climb outside and point out to the stars over hills
and from you the joy and the knowledge will spill
For expression is best when it's not just for you
My confession is this, let it always be true.
I think this one is best read as spoken word/ slam.  If there are parts where the rhythm feels off let me know!
Hannah Christina Jul 2018
Sometimes a voice in your head will tell you that you are a disappointment.  Look that thing in the eye and say, "You're a disappointment!"

Then realize that you are still shouting negative things at yourself in the mirror.  Second thought, don't.  Please don't take advice like this from me.
Poetry is ART.
1.6k · Mar 2019
The Diving Board
Hannah Christina Mar 2019
Cold wet toes hug the sandpaper edge
of the Tall Diving Board, a most terrible ledge
But the plastic and rusted beams buckle and creak
Along with your knees-- they are feeling quite weak.

Everything's swaying, the pool and the sky
Your hands both are shaking and you wonder why
You thought you could jump.  It all seems so silly
You thought you were brave, but up here, you know really

You're just like they said you would be.

You lift you foot trying to face off this dread
right over the edge of the board, but instead
of stepping off, you move backwards.  And then
your other foot follows it downwards again.

Inching back, and hanging your head from the shame,
your feet grip the grooves on the steps just the same

as the last time you thought you were brave.

Then you freeze, and you frown.  All the kids gathered on the ground
could not stop you with mocking from coming back down

But your mom, shouting out from the shade of the sides
speaks to you louder than fear or than pride
"You can do it, I know!"  and you manage a frown
and a stubborn resolve not to walk to the ground

but to swim!  And you struggle back up to the top
the gritty board scraping, the phrase "belly flop!"
taunting you from the children below; and your brow
is furrowed, your teeth clench--the moment is now!

A sniffle, slight stumble, the bending of knees,
You know you can show them--don't belly flop, please!
and you push, one last time-- any time you could stop
at the edge once again, at the diving board top

But you don't!

And it's over.  
A splash is your prize
your ears ring, your nose stings,

But you jumped off the diving board.

And now you can do it again.
Hannah Christina Nov 2018
I bought myself a kite to fly
I ran through sunny fields
And tried to urge it to the sky
But it skipped at my heels

I leaped and danced for childish years
It never left the ground
I noticed through my childish tears
What's left of it was brown

It was torn in the mud, so it was mangled, it was done
And thus concludes the tragedy of the kite I numbered one.

My second kite was stronger, though.
It caught a mighty gale
my heart flew with it in the yellow
Rainbow sky it sailed

I smiled.  My kite, it seemed to me,
Would always stay as mine
But the sting slipped and I lost my grip
I lost it to the sky

It joined with bubbles and balloons, whatever else is there
In the *****, lonely cloudland in the out-of-picture air.

I still had hope and so I bought
My final silken bird
I told myself that I would soon
Unleash it to the word.

I planned that on a weekend soon  
I’d make it to the field.
The colors all would show again
Just once my schedule cleared

The kite's debut date got pushed back and further back until
It found a final resting place untested in its skill.

I bought myself three kites to fly
The first two meet ill fates
The third one has a dusty shelf
Where it keeps very safe.
I decided we could use some more buildup here, so I added a few more stanzas.
983 · Aug 2018
Hannah Christina Aug 2018
I catch glimpses and pieces of a story I need to be a part of
A word or an image will hit
a particular spot in my heart
and strangely resound
Ideas skip through my head that suddenly click.
I come alive
I bolt upright
but then it is gone.  Upon closer examination,
nothing was there.
I don't even know what brought me to this train of thought in the first place.
A second ago it felt very important.

I shake myself off and try to fall back asleep.
A new existential crisis reveals itself to me every few days, and a new astonishing wonderful revelation about every month or two.  And half of a mystery solved lights up each night, but dissipates when I get close enough to study it.
Hannah Christina Aug 2018
I'm rummaging through my messy-closet mind for the choice bits of delectable emotional pain
The agony that come from being the complex and bitter soul I am

But I'm not finding any

I'm actually fairly happy.
Moderately cheerful.
Not floating on clouds, or manic, or bursting with energy.

Just... pretty good.  Quite alright.

This isn't good for poetry.

Or self pity.

What do I do now?
My life is just SO mildly, boring-ly difficult rn.  My mental stability is driving me crazy!

What did I just say?
958 · Jul 2018
Hannah Christina Jul 2018
why must time progress??
i need to take a rest
each falt'ring sentence brings
me closer to my death
Hannah Christina Jun 2018
Some people claim that special intuition
to know another person's thoughts and mind.
I do not.

I did not read her like a book, so I read her like a poem.
Her words did not arrange a neat picture of who she was.
So I listened.
I felt
and I paused
straining to hear every moment.
I reflected, then I listened some more.

I saw patterns repeated,
the strain
and the wince
and I tested hire they felt on my own face

After learning a bit of backstory I flipped back through
what she had said and let the context take effect.

I saw stanzas, couplets, and rhythm

I did not analyze,
I felt,
Hearing her song-story.

I might be wrong.  I might have projected too much of myself, or glanced over a detail.

I can not recite her story or show you her heart,
but I listened to her poem and that is all that I can do.
924 · Aug 2018
Contemplations #2: Humans
Hannah Christina Aug 2018
Humans are so stupid.
Arrogant, disgusting, small-minded, selfish, pathetic mortals.

I think I might be one.

That would explain a lot.
Thanks for reading.

Maybe I'll make a series as a way to label my poems in this style?

PS I need advice on titles!  I don't like them.
839 · May 2018
Cold Air
Hannah Christina May 2018
The cold bites my nose
And the frost chills my lungs
And the wind is stinging my face.

But outside in this moment I'd rather be here than in any more comfortable place.
759 · Dec 2018
Innocent Eyes
Hannah Christina Dec 2018
I beg that her innocent eyes do not conceal the same pain that lurks within my own.
She is life and she is beauty
Please let me believe only that.
She shows from her heart kindness, pure.
Happy hope.

That is what they say about me.
That I know only hope and joy.
That innocence is my clothing
But they do not see the pain in my infected heart
And I did not see it in her.

Oh, do not let it be.

She truly is kindness and hope and...

So am I.
The light is real, only tired
And hurt.
It shines through the cracks in our hearts, all divided.
It shines through dullness and sin

But as I halfway expose my shame, I see her do the same.
In throwaway lines wry admissions.
A casual mention dulls the pain
I see her do the same.

I wish we could be pure
All the way honest, even in our blackness
And let our pain and goodness show alike in truth, rather than letting the infection spread.

Please don't conform to the mass of us hurting and hiding it.
Bleed in your open way
And let the stain be washed away
And stand wide awake and clean
With innocent eyes
732 · Dec 2018
Hannah Christina Dec 2018
Bouncing off of walls
Turning cartwheels and then passing through the wall
Nothing to grasp but the anchor I ignore

Distracted wanderings
Bringing me nothing.
Why don't I land,
Why can't I stop?
541 · Nov 2018
Hannah Christina Nov 2018

so very clean

thank you.
509 · May 2018
ev er y se cond
Hannah Christina May 2018
be gin and it seems there is so much time left / pro ceed ing and speed ing much fast er a gain / craw ling and march ing the mo ments count down / the tick ing grows loud er the se cond hand 's shou ting and fas ter yet slo wly i'm fro zen a sleep / i'm thin king in slo mo time's spee ding and surg ing a round de com pos ing and what do i mean  ? what can i show for the min utes i'm was ting ? i need to be mov ing like there 's no time left / can i get some where make some thing be fore the end ? move me to trust you build some thing be cause I can 't / ev er y se cond i'm dying i need your breath /
Trying something a bit different than my usual form.
Edits made 5/27/18
Hannah Christina Nov 2019
Sea of rubber, storm of rock
Ponder endless, mudslide thoughts
    Until I
cannot see

Batter, torment, carry, pour
Solid things are shifting shores
I cannot hear

Sighs are monsters, out from under
Mud is made of every mutter
Thunder fades into more thunder
    Avalanche demands

All of what you thought was peace
deserts to deserts underseas
the grains of sand
climb past  your knees

    and now i cannot think

I used to hide from walls of rock
  or shrink into a corner;
    at least
    is solid set
I forgot about this one and completely re-wrote it today and I had the best time playing with the structure and sounds.
496 · Mar 1
An itchy spider lives in me,
right underneath my second skin.

She's waited, tense, expectantly for something dangerous
to finally draw towards her its claws and scratch straight down her spine.

Her fangs have naught to bite upon, so I must feed her well enough
on nerves, dry skin, and fingernails and songs about a violent sea.

If she dies, I might turn to stone--
an itchy spider lives in me.
493 · Apr 2020
Lightening Powers
Hannah Christina Apr 2020
When it flashes, I can't speak, except
   in      fra c tu
r   ed  gas p in
(I should be able to withstand the shocks much better than I do)

The vibrations, the detachment lasts for several minute after
the power has been discharged and
I can't think.

Emergency situations call for
level-headed judgement,
but the jolting of the volts is difficult to disregard.

My heat resets itself somehow each time
even though the rhythm is interrupted
time and over again with every blast my power creates.

I want to pull within myself every time I use it,
embrace the sense of power, the sensation,
without reaching out.

Brain activity,
heart activity, muscle spasmatic ripples,
and I can't see past sporadic sparking up my face.

Victims, villains, friends of mine
and all your detailed instructions,
please survive in spite of me.

They say I'm strongest on the team
in strength, and that is hard to say.
I'll stay with you and fight but my mind
can't live on another day.
Poem-a-day Prompt 1: Your Superpower
I already missed the first day of National Poetry Month (whoops)
In light of the event, I'll write a daily poem with minimal editing and post them.  Expectations for quality are low.  Expectations for ideas and creativity are high.  Maybe after this month I'll return to a few of my favorites and develop them into more polished, "real" poems.
Hannah Christina Jul 2018
Having the sudden urge to hug someone, but restraining yourself because you don't know hour they would react.
Making this series a thing, introducing feelings and defining the by the scenarios they come from.  I'm in between using loquacious dictionary language and putting things simply.
479 · Feb 2019
Praise Be
Hannah Christina Feb 2019
"Praise be,"
I whisper with unclean lips
The blood and tears held barely back
"Oh, save,"
I plead, with nothing but dust to give
477 · Nov 2018
sky- haiku
Hannah Christina Nov 2018
sky of deepest blue
ethereal starlight dim
wind is soft and cold
trying out lowercase to keep things simple and clean
Snowflakes hum inside my head,
bumping to and fro.
Stinging sky meets soggy ground and nothing seems to stick.

Each flake is different, so I'm told--
each unknowable and cold, they vanish when you try to grasp them--
fleeting, fragile wisps.

I've spun no story strong enough
to stake my ship upon.
My tears dry up before they're spilled for little lasts for long.

Blankets white I find here not--
that, nor green-clad earth--
only harried solitude inside these biting mists.

Perhaps my blust'ring mind is not
leading me to tread my sought-for courses; I fear I've forgot them
yearning for the drifts.

But elsewhere 'neath the firmament, there are other skies.
There are other thoughts in other hearts apart from mine.

From over where the snow falls
and beneath the bedrock's roots
flames unflinching flicker still through height and depth and width.
Some of my poems come together in a few quiet minutes or an afternoon-- this one's been in the works for over a month and I'm still mulling it over.  I first conceived it when I was driving to a college visit and it started flurrying.

I'd like to hear some criticism regarding the sound.  It's got a specific meter and lots of assonance and consonance, with a few perfect rhymes.  I really liked developing the sounds, but I think it might be a little too sing-song in certain parts, especially since all of the lines are iambic.  I intentionally broke patterns in a few places to make it a little bit disorienting and frustrating while still pleasant, and I'm not sure if I've got the effect quite right.  How would you describe the sounds?  Did you notice them working with with or the themes?  Is it happy, playful, frustrating, satisfying?  (Did anyone pick up on "windy" sounds with all the effs and esses? I was quite proud of that)

Many thanks :-D
438 · Feb 2020
Hannah Christina Feb 2020
Her manicured leaves and thirsty rainbow faces always deliver
but she envies the daisy in the sidewalk.
Personification all day long.

For me, putting on appearances has more to do with forced behavior than appearances themselves, which is the real contrast between the characters here.  I don't want to propagate "I'm not like other girls" kinds of thinking.
There's  nothing wrong with having conventional interests or appearance when you're genuine about it.
425 · May 2018
The Butterfly Is Out
Hannah Christina May 2018
A crackle of a shell
being torn
cast aside

The flutter of a wing
new and fresh
limp and weak

A squeal from the child
watching close
eyes are wide

The  waiting and the rest
little wings
strength to seek

The wings are now stretched out
orange and black
beating slow

A flutter and a cry
take the air
sailing strong

It lands and then takes off
up again
high and low

It's lilting towards the clouds
out of sight
flies along

Fare thee well, young butterfly.
My family has had a hobby of raising monarch butterflies since I was a kid.  We have had many, but  I still remember when by first butterfly hatched.  It's chrysalis had come detached from the top of the bug habitat, and I thought it might die.  I worried the whole morning, but I made it.  It takes them some time to pump up their wings and rest before they can fly.  Getting out of the chrysalis quite a challenge.  I always felt proud of them after they made it.

You know, even if you have to do something, like school maybe, or getting through a hard part of your life doesn't mean it wasn't an accomplishment.  You are still very strong, even if you felt like you had other options.  Just getting out of bed is a feat sometimes.  Or holding in hurtful words.  Or speaking up when you know you must.  I was always proud of my butterflies.  I am proud of you, too.
412 · May 2018
Hannah Christina May 2018
the earth spins around
one thousand miles an hour
and we can not tell
A haiku.  I pronounce "hour" as two syllables to keep the 5/7/5/ rule, but I know some people pronounce it as one.  I could have made it "one thousand miles every hour."  ???
361 · Jul 2018
Hannah Christina Jul 2018
I have a sword, a bow, a knife
A vantage point up high
In front, behind, and at each hand
A different foe draws nigh.

If I could know just what to do,
I think I'd hold them back.
But I've no skill or training
And no plan for attack.

Each villain huddles nearer still
And I don't have a clue
On how to load my mighty bow
Or what a blow would do

I shake and gasp, I can't fight back
my untrained arms are weak
The courage and the strength I lack,
So Your help I now seek.

Refresh my mind, give me a goal
And guide my drying bones.
I need a plan, I need a job.
I can't survive alone.
356 · May 2018
Musing in Broken Forms
Hannah Christina May 2018
Right now I am
thinking in poetry

line breaks

word shapes

stack sounds in strange ways

Is this how it is meant to look?

Maybe it would look better
feel nicer
sound clearer
if i put in fewer spaces.

Do I want all punctuation?
Properly formatted sentences
can be difficult
to rhymatize.

Is rhymatize a word?
I think so.
Red squiggles underline.
Google says no.
I still say yes.

Now I digress.
But does that work?
Should the flow of ideas be neatly outlined, or come freely as my thoughts?  Perhaps I should spill the words out all as one in unbroken strings of color and thought the way they feel in my head unsaid
occasional rhymes and occasional beats and breaks keep changing

is this poetry?

random line breaks
really take
make it poetic
need to do actual
and find a form and stick with it?

For now today
I'll lilt and play

Every poem a new experiment, another chance to try something new.

To play with rhythm, feelings, and sounds, to meticulously arrange language into a perfect unbroken form,

Or to simply see where the thoughts take me.
Should my real point be what is said, or how I
am saying it?

Sometimes the saying itself is the point.
Now for something really, really experimental.  I didn't really know how this would end up when I started writing it.

For this summer, I've made a commitment to draft a poem every day if at all possible.  I've done it three days in a row now (though I haven't edited or published the other poems yet) and I thank everyone who reads any of my work most deeply.  It really boosts my motivation to keep going, so by simply reading and especially by giving feedback you really help me to keep trying and ultimately to get better.  So thank you ever so much.
330 · Feb 2020
Global Positioning System
309 · May 2020
Imaginary Friends
Hannah Christina May 2020
Superheroes hiding their tortured inner lives behind primary colored-masks and hilarious one-liner comebacks.
Normal girls who were actually princesses, but didn’t act like other girls (or other princesses). Space wizards with stupid haircuts.

No one understood them, but I did.

I knew all their tragic backstories,
their hearts’ deepest desires,
the ways that they were, like, rejected by society and stuff.  
I gushed over their bonds of friendship that could never be broken, not by intergalactic politics, ancient feuds between magical species, or the infinite varieties of mind control.
I totally supported them when no one else could.

I reread the most heart-wrenching pages over and over again,
my fingers bubbling the plastic dust jackets and my toes clenching in my mismatched socks.
I couldn’t just wade in these worlds—I baptized myself into them, staying under the shallow water for hours without taking a breath.
I could never quite feel enough.  I squished my eyelids shut, trying to conjure up the tears that my heroes deserved.

Behind my wrinkled brow, they lived.
Morphed themselves together into an ever-present consciousness, answering the questions I asked to no one.
I talked to it out loud some days, when I was especially alone.

Sometimes, I would see these friends out in public,
on a graphic tee in the hallway,
or a backpack in the classroom.
I would always greet them enthusiastically.
“I love your t-shirt!  Book four is the best!”
(With a warm, sweaty face way too much nervous laughter)
“That’s such a cool water bottle!  Which Avenger is your favorite?”
(Hands clutching hair, leg bouncing)
“I… like your sketchbook!”
(Hopeful smile, averted eyes)

And we would talk to each other (!)
About our shared interest and have a fun conversation (!)
For a few minutes.
I’d talk to them  the next time I saw them, too.
And every time we were in class together.
Then I hatched a daring plan.

My mom offered permission and a date,
my dad offered pizzas and the basement TV,
and I extended to my friends
an invitation.

No one came.
The assignment that sparked this one was "Poetry of Witness," which usually refers to reporting the lives of tortured political prisoners, victims of famine, refuges... things like that.  I've never lived through anything like that, but I've lived through middle school, which is pretty similar.

Joking aside, I'm glad that I wrote these experiences to share this reality, and to speak for all the kids who are still living the way I grew up.  Loneliness is an epidemic in this country (if not most of the developed world) and I really wanted to make the connection between obsessing over fiction and loneliness. Fiction can definitely help distract from the pain, and at best it can bring people together, but it's very easy for fictional narratives to take up such an important place in someone's heart that they stop trying to build their own life and develop relationships.

This is part of the story of me growing up, but it isn't the whole story.  I don't like dwelling on just the worse things in life (part of me LOVES this, but we're trying not to), but I ended the way I did because I wanted this to be a powerful cry of a hurting person.  The whole truth is much more complex.

There were plenty of people who (intentionally or unintentionally) rejected me as I was growing up, and that really effects my worldview to this day.  However, there were also people who accepted and encouraged me.  There were parties I planned where people did show up, just not the "popular" people who I thought were most important to please.  In fact, at times I was blind to those around me who felt more rejected than I was.  If I was less self-focused, I probably could have had better friendships.

But what can I say?  I was 13.
297 · May 2018
Nightly News
Hannah Christina May 2018
I dare not listen to the news.
I squeeze my eyes shut and refuse.

Torrential cries and senseless violence
I look past to hold my silence.

Is this so wrong?
It's not as if
My worrying the world will shift.

I do not know if it is right,
But I will skip the news tonight.
287 · May 2018
The Trumpet Speaks
Hannah Christina May 2018
A shout.  A cry of triumph and all is silent.
The blast rings back through time and foreword to the end.
The chaos of battle, the order of music.

Beside me are others.  The breath erupts through us and we shout or sing through pipes of brass.


An end, a beginning, and all comes together
Now glad in song, now fierce in battle.

Triumph, alarm, and a final blast
From when I have said enough at last.
277 · May 2018
The Father's Love
Hannah Christina May 2018
It is there in the grasp of the hand of a friend.
It is there in the shade of a tree.
And yet I forget it again and again,
So draw me back down to my knees.

It is there in the tear, in the jolt through the heart.
It is there in the storm that is braved.
And still it pursues me through cold and through fire.
It follows me down to the grave.

It never can die though it flickers in me,
And yet I forget it. I fail to see

Now remember the Source, oh! remember, my soul.
The proof in the pain and the calm.
And cling to the signs, all the proof of that Love.
The fire, the wind, and the balm.
I always have trouble deciding how to title my poems.  I like to leave them open to interpretation, as the content is often rather vague, but I also like my meaning to be understood.  A title can make the meaning clear from the beginning, but also removes some of the openness.  Does anyone have advice?
275 · Jul 2020
Hannah Christina Jul 2020
blinking like a blade
of grass before a lake-storm
soft but not asleep
I'm working on a free verse poem that's giving me some trouble, so a short one is an enjoyable break.  Haikus are usually not my favorite to read.  They're a similar concept to 10w poems, but I find myself liking most 10w's better.  Maybe they're hard to do well, or maybe I just don't enjoy the form.  When they're "traditional" in content (about nature and stuff,) they're usually bland.  When they're more emotion based about feelings, there's not much space for imagery or creativity, so they can sound flat and self-indulgent (to me anyway).  So when I find a haiku that I actually like, I love it all the more.

Even though I dislike most of the haiku poems I read (at least compared to other forms) I really enjoy writing them.  Short sentences and specific guidelines are therapeutic, and they force you to be extra creative.  The traditional focus on sensations is calming.

What are your thoughts on forms?  I like to hear how different readers and writers experience things.

There's a balance between writing what you like to write, writing what you would like to read, and communicating in a way that will be effective for your readers.   Or maybe the things you think about are entirely different.  Either way, I'd love to hear about it.
275 · May 2018
Hannah Christina May 2018
Brutally shocking, burning, destroying.
A sudden flash, out of nowhere with striking speed and power.  

Then thunder.  
A rumble,
low, distant, and spine-tingling; a hovering fear, a looming threat.  
Or a crackle--
fierce, sharp, wild, unpredictable.  
A jolt.  
A deafening, heat-stopping jolt.  
Not just near you, but inside you.  
Burning in your chest, pulsing through your blood, freezing on your skin, screaming in your mind.

It ends, but it doesn't leave.  It remains, hovering in the air and burned into your soul.  It echoes.  It fades, but it remains.
275 · May 2018
Hannah Christina May 2018
I dare me to be happy.
I dare me to be strong.
To not be blown back and forth be every wave along.

I think that I have courage
it might not be enough.
I dare myself to not grow hard while also growing tough.

A tender heart, a gaze that's firm.
Instead of sulking I will learn.

Mature and determined without growing proud,
softly I will pray out loud.

I'm working to be happy,
I'm working to be firm.
I might not be there yet, but trust and pray that I will learn.
270 · Jul 2019
Hannah Christina Jul 2019
driftwood on the surf
the quaking of a feather
my unstable heart
269 · Jul 2018
A Series of Feelings No. 2:
Hannah Christina Jul 2018
The uncomfortable triumph that comes from being brave enough to admit that you're scared
I had that moment today, and I was so close to giving in and letting fear make my choice.
253 · Aug 2018
The Second Left
Hannah Christina Aug 2018
Now I take the long way home most nights
a few extra minutes for back roads and quiet
the first turn faces me directly away from home
and in the darkness I cruise straight down a beautiful road to nowhere
and I am a free, flying runaway
for only a minute
before dutifully turning left.
at that intersection
my eyes always linger straight ahead, on my road to nowhere and anywhere
I could stay on this path and not look back
leaving everything
to be alone

But already I have involuntarily pulled into the turn lane.
My blinker is on, and so there is no way out of it.
I will go back home like I should.  
was I thinking?
My home is nice.  My life is good.  
is nothing
to run away from.
but maybe...
is there something is worth running to?
249 · May 2018
Hannah Christina May 2018
Looking at myself I cannot see
The One who sees inside of me.
Stuck in my head I'm not aware
Of everyone
Out there
Who cares.
244 · May 2018
Hannah Christina May 2018
The enchanting, unearthly fog
overwhelms the parking lot
and my small romantic heart.
This drab field of concrete becomes
a magical fen
the place where epics and legends unfold.
My feet lift lightly through the damp
and I dance with the shadows
transformed by the mist into something
The street lamps beam fantastic eerie rays
in to my wonderland domain.
Am I a storyteller?
I think I am the beloved of a great Lover,
pursued with gossamer dreams
and romanced by sacred light.
231 · Feb 2020
Hannah Christina Feb 2020
“Will you barter for your garden?”
the familiar stranger taunted.

His haunting talk caught on a loose thread in my heart,
recalling time and battles fought.

Make no mistake about the fae.
I must admit I was afraid, for I have seen my adversary

tear out the grass’s screaming hair,
poison the soil with atmosphere arid,
strip the baby branches barren,
shave the landscape clear.

I need not obey him.  
I have in my hands a *****
and around this place an angry hedge.
He can not prevail unless I show him the way.

“No,” say I,
“No bartering in my garden today.”
This one was for the poetry class I'm taking(!).
The assignment was to write a rhyming or metered poem.  I decided to use assonance focused around the letter "a" as much as possible.  This is not a way that I often use rhyme.  I really, really like it.  It stitches the words together without feeling to sing-song or structured.  If you scroll back to my stuff from a year or two ago, you'll see that I used a lot of line-end rhymes and lots of meter.  I don't like the way that kind of structure feels anymore, but I also don't like writing poems that ignore the use of sound.  This is a happy medium for me.
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