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 Jan 2014 Andrew T Hannah
Art is delicate
yet it will tear you open

a silent night spent pondering
with music lapping at your ears in the distant background of a room
when that one wicked note appears...that frustrating, elating, releasing, infuriating, frantic passion!

You think to manifest something,
No! It takes a hold of you! That thing!
It throws you on the floor and you let it run!

Muttering, you grab your medium, you gaze at it, witnessing visions of those particular fantasies cascading around your brain and throwing themselves through your eyes! Words roar onto the page, taking their rightful place in this creative freedom. Perhaps there is colour, a photo, a leaf, some of yourself that has drip-fallen from the wounds in your brain! Giant cerebral colour crevices torn open to let thought, love and ideals flow out! They will close up and heal stronger than ever. However, you first must empty yourself into it all.

Time is up.

Slumped back against your life you can gaze upon this thing that has shown itself to you, perhaps you thank it for giving you a chance with such passion. Then you can return to what it is you do in the mean time. Waiting for that delicate thing, that is always there, but thrums and hums with your creative spirit in waiting, until it is delicate no more.
Someone asked me what I would describe "Art" as. I proceeded to spew this forth at them.

Now they refuse to talk to me more than casually as they have told others, "he's one of those confusing artsy types."
As I drift on the edge of sleep
Where my desires and reality converge
Like wet sand on the beach
Left behind by the receding tide
To either fizzle out slowly in summer's sun
Or be blown dry by winter's wind
Bubbles of foam seep out from beneath the grains
They form thoughts, and then they pop...
Does a bubble make a sound when it pops?
Do we care about the demise of such a fragile object?
Aren't our lives just like a bubble?
My eyelids flutter open and closed
Micro-sleep is only a term that constantly awake people use
If we're supposed to sleep a third of our lives
Where does the difference in the estimated time go?
Moments in this wee hour of night or morning
Where I'm drowning in a sky of my own thoughts
Am I really alive?
Or is this a lucid dream?
The answer is unknown
I'm already asleep
A night terror brought to life.

I fade into a room
I hear the footsteps
I feel my skin

The door is yanked and left agape
I'm blinded by the light
He grabs me and I know there is no escape.

Suddenly he's in me, and I'm left voiceless
He says to open my eyes and I protest
A hard pound into my *** and a smack later
My eyes are open staring into a mirror

I look away and am yanked back
Forced to watch myself be treated like meat
He pounds away, a disgusting rhythm
As tear roll down my face, in defeat

Once he's finished he drops me to the floor
I sit like I'm supposed to,
Sitting on my knees, bowed and waiting for more.

He's back and I'm up in his arms
Holding my mine at my sides he whispers and nibbles at my shoulder
Telling me I'm his, that I'm so strong.
I fight to get away, he's so wrong.

He says he's sick of these games and straightens my face
Forces me to stare at my naked, bruised body
In the mirror that I can't take
I cry, and I cry

"Your mine"
A quick slap to the *** and I'm dropped again, to the floor.
Please note that this was a NIGHTMARE so it is not the exact real life account of what happened. Some parts are metaphors of how I was feeling at this time in my life. Thank you for reading.
I am the ocean.
I am the waves.
I am the embrace of the
salty water, in which you crave.
But I am more than this
in my entirety.
You swim in the shallows,
of my beauty.
But do not dare lurk
into the darkness beyond it.
You fear the monsters that reside
in the depths of me.
You are happy in your ignorance,
because ignorance is bliss in this instance.
You are no daredevil explorer
simply a tourist.

Remain in blissful ignorance; I do not blame you for this.
We were told to write a poem in English class. My teacher literally came in, sat down, and said, "you have 40 minutes, write a poem, go"

We had 40, but I was done in 10.
Face                     of MADNESS        , gather your twisted strength
Stench like sadness? (Do)n't                             confuse, its greatness
Sway through the fractures and disjointedness
      Disembodied                      manifestati­on, useless phenomenon
S(cul)p(ture)s hammered into DisFuRme/nt
Castrate salient pieces                     of that body
      Spew inhuman lexicon insinuating         i-n/co\here/nce
Slaughter the (harm)ony                   within cadence
Screech!         H     o      w      l!          Growl!
Rel(easing) murderous miseries within infected entr[ails]
      R A G E, count{less} bullets                              turning fl{ashes} of sanity to CAD(AVE)R(S)
De[generate] ripping throat of conscio(us)ness
February 24, 2013
There's one thing
I have to tell you.

I can't stop uttering,
anything about you.

Whether its about the midnight rain
and how it describes your voice so well,
or the way you won't stop singing,
till you're satisfied and sewn me to sleep.

If I look at the dark orange spotted afternoon,
or the satin red leaves of autumn.
I'll know its been a while since I've thought
of you.

If I hear the chalky barren concert of concrete,
or the uproar of the arid wind.
I'll have forgotten what your voice
sounds like.

If I feel the reticent tremble of winter,
or the cold bitter piercing destitute bed.
I'll remember why our adulation had
my heart in a headlock.

I cannot give you the world
or my name.
Because I do not own them.
All I can give you is my love and lungs,
that is all that I have and hold.

All I'll ever ask of you is for your voice and love.
You make my head lighter with just
some notes you sing.
I would like to thank the community for keeping this beautiful website free.
I would also like to receive feedback and criticism on this poem.
Thank you.
What is the hardest part
                    Of being alone?
It's the quietness,
A stillness making
What ought have been a home-
a house.
It's filled with beds,
But those lover's nests
Are             Empty.
And the thought is
As occupying as a dream.
A dream you cannot feel
Because the loneliness is keeping you awake

With no one to hold down your fears
         And keep you safe.

— The End —