This could be
the last poem I
ever write.
I hope not,
but it's possible.

If it were my
last poem,
what would I want
it to say?
Wow, not so easy.

Poetry has been a
loving wife, and I
will miss her on
all those sleepless
nights, when dreams
don't come.
Writing poems have
kept me in touch
with all the harsh
pain, and all the
sublime beauty.
Both are supreme
teachers.

Poetry has opened
my ears to the
sounds of the
earth, the whispered
rush of the creek
running over stones
and sticks.
The cries of my
children in the
night wanting
their mothers'
milk.

If this were
my
last poem, I would
want it to bring
some joy and be
a bit less sentimental.
Oh well,
guess I have to
write more.

I get tipsy when I’m around you
I always feel that way
My heart is palpitating
My thoughts await
What shall I say?
For I’m in love
But you don’t know
It’s always been that way
That’s why I get tipsy
I just wish you’d stay
And just sit a while
Before the fireplace with hot chocolate
I’d try to say I’m amusing things
Get you to laugh and say yay
I’ve been working up my courage
For the last two months or so
Today, I think I’ll make my play
With a heidi heidi **
I’ll smother you with compliments
Each one of them sincere
I’ll ply you with fun anecdotes
I’ll make it very clear
That I am in love with you
There’s no place else for me to go
Except to be near you
To be with you
To make it so

My therapist told me
That you said
You wanted to be friends

She didn't understand how messed up that was

I don't want to be his friend
I don't need my father as a friend
I need him as a parent
And a good one at that

You choose your friends
I don't choose you

You're forced to be someone's child
Like I was to you
Except you want to be my friend
I don't want you

My mom had an escape
She divorced him
And even then
It took her a child
And 25 years

I'm stuck
He's in my bones
There's nothing I can do
Except choose not to be friends with him

I want to be his daughter
And for that he has to be my dad
Thats on him

Step one:
Be an adult

*Failed

I want to write something beautiful
But my thoughts and my heart aren't there right now
And that's where I write from

So everything I write is messy and weird

And probably a little unhealthy

Maybe a little stuck too

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

      Bombshell: The U. K. Daily Mail is Saying the Same Thing

Everyone is saying the same thing jaw-dropping everyone is saying the same thing iconic everyone is saying the same thing breaking cover everyone is saying the same thing bombshell everyone is saying the same thing haunting everyone is saying the same thing mysterious everyone is saying the same thing eye-watering everyone is saying the same thing ******* clad everyone is saying the same thing toned abs everyone is saying the same thing backlash everyone is saying the same thing jaw-dropping everyone is saying the same thing cleavage everyone is saying the same thing bombshell bombshell bombshell

Skinny feels
Not like people think,
Bony, awkward, too lean
Bones protruding,
No more curves
Thin limbs, skinny hurts
Eat like a bottomless pit
Look in a mirror
Feel like ****
Skinny means no *****
No ****, no hips
Skinny isn't muscular
It's the opposite if ripped
It's slouching in the hall
Pointy elbows and knees
Loose pants, shirts
No matter how much you eat
Skinny means
Feeling like a stick
Skinny can make anyone
Look small and sick
Skinny gives the impression
Of weak, shaky frames
Skinny makes me regret
The middle school nicknames
Skinny shouldn't be a goal
Thank God
If you look full and whole
Making feel as good as dirt
Everyone out there,
I promise. *skinny hurts

Fat, fat, fat.
All I see is fat.
I am the "chunkiest", the "chubbiest", the "roundest" and the "ugly pig".
I might as well be a rat, the biggest of the big.

Fat, fat, fat,
All I see is fat.
I am "just right", "average", "normal" or "perfect size."
They lie every single time, and hell, just 'like that'.

Fat, fat, fat,
All I see is fat.
I am "too skinny!", "I wish I looked like you", "wow! Size zero jeans?!" and "underweight".
Yet, I refuse to touch this cold, stocked plate.

Fat, fat, fat,
All I see is fat.
I am "awful", "dying", Miss "eat something" and "throne of bones".
Yet, this body will never be my souls rightful home.

Fat, fat, fat.
All I ever will be is fat.
Even in a long gown and stuck to the end of an I.V pole,
With doctors and psychatrists and loved ones crying and begging me to just "recover, please come home!"

I am still fat.


The hospital bed is empty,
My bed is left untouched,
There is a silence as the wearers in black all sob and stare silently at the body in the ground.
Devasted and hushed...

I see them, but can no longer speak.
No longer able to feel, no longer live,
Forced to watch time pass and hearts mourn...
Their days now heartbroken and bleak.

My  best friend doesn't speak, she now sits alone,
My mother sobs every night, family reminded
so often of my presence,
The one who secrelty loved me has loved no more,
Even my pets still wait outside my door.

Those who knew me, only can remember me in the things left behind,
Even the sun itself rarely shines.


Dead, lost, gone.
I am no longer fat,
But I also no longer- belong.

I don’t wanna talk right now.
I just wanna watch TV
I’ll stay in the pool and drown.
So I don’t have to watch you leave.
And I’ll be in denial for at least a little while
What about the plans we made?