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For the past month I’ve been trying to write
About everything- from the way flower petals bend, and look so soft, why I’ve been feeling so depressed lately, even about how when I was a kid I played the flute
But none of it sticks, I can’t get passed stanza four
I’ve had this problem before
Where I can only describe a bending sky, but never can I get to the way it breaks.
But I swear I’ve been broken before
More broken than junk yard cars, and dropped glass bottles
And I’m still gluing myself back together, over and over
Getting spare parts to try to fix me
When this is all over my new skin will be composed of words written over centuries
And my edges will be a little rough
Covered with a bit of rust
But who isn’t
My best friend is a mess of parts that don’t quite fit together right
But she makes me strong, and when I break down she will take herself apart to fix me
And that’s something we all need
When I was little and I still played the flute
I dyed my hair green for the first time
Going to music class for the second time, my teacher no longer recognized me
And back then I didn’t carry around an arsenal of defense mechanisms
And when I was told I looked like a boy, I pretended that I wasn’t getting chipped away at
That's probably why I will never enjoy band, and I can’t look into the eyes of a music teacher
Every middle school poem was brought back to red roses and flowers
And how your hand was softer than a newly budding flower petal
In all reality that’s why I don’t about flowers anymore
And I’ve been so depressed lately because I can’t write
But I guess junk yard cars and broken bottles can’t write either
 Jun 2015 Astrid Ember
Rapunzoll
I pour myself into
your glass each night,
a toxic taste, I beg
for you to choke on.

You drain our bottle
dry, drinking desert
laps but still thirsting
for Pacific oceans.

Delving into firework
taste-buds, savouring
how we spill so easily in
nights drunken palms.

Telling me I'm cheap
stuff, liquid eyes that
keep you sober, but are
still a tempting sip.
© copyright
 Jun 2015 Astrid Ember
Rapunzoll
Your sun stroked fingers
smooth my dusted galaxies
spoiling orbiting blues
with swipes of stardust.

You kiss meteors, murmur
how you savored snippets
of Jupiter's moons in the
spaces of a poetic eclipse.

Adorning Saturn's rings
in your nebulous tombs,
rekindling your smile with
flames of lovers past.

The memory is still buried
within my core, a pounding
resonance that evokes the bloom
of summers kiss on Earth.

A welcome release for the
nights wandering stars.
© copyright
Second-hand smoke
thrums within my ribcage
and I notice every atom
from top to bottom
crannies and nooks
mahogany lava
flooding over shoulders
blue-streaked toes

I can't look away
I don't want to look away
at the way
she holds a cigarette
lazy between *******
and the impish half-smile
that says everything perhaps
and perhaps nothing
a Picasso masterpiece
but it's only lips
it's only the girl
they all call Alaska
a walking storm in flip-flops
from room forty-eight

the static we have
simmers upon my tongue
or is it just Mountain Dew

words belonging to Vonnegut
drop from the leaves
sparkle like drizzle
and kiss every clover
good evening goodnight
goodbye

I have plunged into her pool
of wine and waterlogged literature
I see it I know it I want
to take a drag of her
glide inside her nirvana
hear her smile
with a crush of emeralds
wild in my eyes
a throb of electricity
that rockets through
my crooked veins
and I want a taste
as if squeezing a lemon
and the sugar cascades
liquor-like down my throat
straight and fast
to the last frontier

I see a chain of daisies
gush from her chest
crash at her feet
to be continued
I hope I hope
a phone is ringing
what country is calling?
is it where her vanilla whisper
leaves me wondrously numb?
a fuzzy echo hums
inside my ears
I ask is it over?
Is it done?

and then ****
I'm awake
and her name
has vanished
as fast as a ghost
disintegrated
like the cigarette she held
lazy between *******.
Written: June 2015.
Explanation: This poem is unlike almost anything I have written before. This piece is about the character Alaska Young, from John Green’s novel ‘Looking For Alaska.’ Recently, I read the story for the first time and really liked Alaska - her mystery, her personality etc, and I decided to write a poem about her (sort of) from the viewpoint of the male protagonist Miles (aka Pudge).
The poem contains many references to parts of the story: Alaska smokes, mahogany hair, blue toenails, a half-smile, the Picasso reference, the flip-flops, room forty-eight, Mountain Dew, Vonnegut, drizzle, the clover, wine, waterlogged literature, eyes like emeralds, the use of the word ‘crooked’, the lemon, daisies, vanilla (relating to her smell in the book), and the words ‘****’, ‘ghost’ and ‘disintegrated.’
The title also stems straight from a part in the book, while ‘the last frontier’ is the state nickname of Alaska. She is described as a hurricane in the novel, but this becomes a ‘storm’ in my writing. The phrase ‘The Great Perhaps’ is mentioned in Green’s novel a few times; I just shorten it to ‘perhaps.’
John Green states a line in the song ‘Stephanie Says’ by The Velvet Underground made him choose the name Alaska. ‘people all call her Alaska’ becomes ‘only the girl / they all call Alaska’ in the poem. ‘what country shall I say is calling?’ becomes ‘what country is calling?’ in the poem too.
Hopefully those who have not read the book will still enjoy the poem. It is unusual for me to write a piece about a fictional character in a real novel/TV show/movie.
All feedback is very welcome as always.
NOTE: A week after this poem was uploaded, rumours began circulating that Looking For Alaska would be made into a movie next year.
Also note that many of my older poems will be removed from HP in the coming months.
 May 2015 Astrid Ember
curlygirl
I have a friend,
beautiful and daring,
who is now afraid to love
because of the men
standing in her shadow.
                                         "Maybe I don't know what love really is,"
she said.
                                         "Maybe you loved someone who didn't deserve it.
                                            And that's okay"

I replied.
The realisation
that nobody
but you
is going
to save your life
is as
liberating
as it is
terrifying.
'I'm the hero of the story,
Don't need to be saved.'
- Hero, Regina Spektor.
When you fell in love,
You realized how grotesque it is.
When tragedy struck,
You realized how gorgeous she is.
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