cre·scen·do
/krəˈSHenˌdō/

noun

1. the loudest point reached in a gradually increasing sound.
"the music rose into a crescendo"

the music swells around us, in this room where our eyes first met. the room i first saw you, i first saw myself.
my breath exits my mouth in short breaths, mesmerised by your soul and the way it greets mine

2. the highest point reached in a progressive increase of intensity.
"the hysteria reached a crescendo around the parade"

the tears block my vision, my voice hoarse with anger. i hear your voice heighten, the temperature in the room rising. your voice is piercing. spitting venom. my breath exits my chest in quick, gasping breaths, fighting to stay together.
your soul stands before me rotting and splintering, hateful words directed at mine. your arm raises in an unfamiliar motion. ready to strike but your soul strikes before your hand can, venom seeping into the wound on my cheek



c.h.h.b end.

that* (pronoun)
\ˈthat, thət\

used by the misunderstanding to describe the depth of thought and/or emotion experienced by the reader upon reading poetry that has been ripped directly from the author's soul

Se⋅ren⋅di⋅pit⋅y n. 1. The uplifting, seemingly never-ending weightlessness brought on by a beautiful event of pure happenstance. 2. When light hits one's face, esp. a friend or lover, in just the right way, and every aspect of one's inner beauty is displayed: lying in the morning sun / the ghost of curtains over faces / dust mote flurries around sleeping figures / or under the dim glow of decorative lights / and digital clocks reading 3:06 AM / exposed hearts, exposed minds / out on our sleeves / your inner beauty visible externally / to the world, to me / your face aflame with embarrassing thoughts / my face aflame with visible affection / or lying out under the Milky Way / under the Universe / constellations and bodies of memories hang above our heads / and watch us grow from millions of years in the past.

noun

1. the scent of after-rain and earthy vanilla saturate the pages of the time-worn books piled around me like my very own wizard tower. multiloquent magician that i am, weaving words with merely my will and a quill, i cannot help but think that the smell itself is its own kind of strange and wonderful magic.

2. the sound of faint bass through headphones hanging from around my neck twines through the counter-melody looping in my head and is like my own background music. life is a movie-set and in every recording there is a harmonious strain picked up by the mikes with no discernible source. i am my own hero in this one.

3. the taste of mint on the tip of my tongue as i inhale the perfume of my garden reminds me of tree-shadows under noon-day sun, or creeks trickling through boulder fields. sparrows nestle on my collar bones, tickling my throat and filling my mouth with the summer-dust flavor of feathers.

4. the sight of a sweet shop or a library or a craft market or a street busker sends an effervescent thrill across my shoulders, seeing the pieces of the puzzle that makes up my art, on display for the world.

5. the feel of a pen in my hand is akin to being touched by the divine, with the power of pure creation at my fingertips. a world of my own making unrolls before me. it is an ever-evolving, stirring, dynamic creature of ink that is singing singing singing to my soul.

h.f.m.

adjective

1. i wonder what you think when you look at me with those oh so perfect sweet eyes. do you think what a monster. do you think i am seeing a legend in the making.

2. we all bleed the same color when the thin armor of our skin in cut and parted. the pain is only temporary. everything is temporary. but this blood is such a vibrant red.

3. the other day you lay on the damp grass in the school field wondering aloud why the people could be so cruel, why the sky was so covered in smog, why the world was so cold, why, why, why. wouldn't we all like to know.

4. this is all we are. pathetic creatures who don't know what we have until it's gone.

5. they call me bitter. they call me cold. they call me hollow. i am merely a more honest one of them.

6. and do not forget— you are just like me. you too have no soul.

h.f.m.

adjective

1. i never asked to be like this, consumed utterly. when i run out of ink i dip my quill in my own veins and scratch out beautiful, ethereal, unutterable words in crimson. passion and pain are interchangeable in my mind, each one bleeding into the other and through each other.

2. words forge my palace and my prison. i compose poetry and story and power, like a creature possessed. my pen flies across the page, like it has a mind of its own.

3. i run out of space on the page in front of me, filling my notebook, filling innumerable napkins at various cafés with half-formed thoughts and unintelligible scribbles. i ink 3am inspirations and epiphanies on my skin, up and down my arms, a living testament to my obsession, my mania.

4. i must move mountains and i have a teaspoon for a *****.

h.f.m.

noun

1. you think you know what i am? you know nothing.

2. 'crazy,' you mutter, strapping me in white with buckles and soothing words of false promise. 'delusional,' you whisper, bolting the door of this padded room and leaving me behind with the echoes of your footsteps. 'formidable,' you admit, in the quiet of your thoughts as tendrils of fear take root. at least you have one thing right.

3. are you listening? i am the end of all things. you cannot hope to contain me. i see all, i know all, i am all. there is nowhere i cannot escape to track you down. there is nowhere you can hide. i will find you.

4. it is written in the stars. my rise, from the ashes of this prison that smells of antiseptic and lemons and sickness. my *******, of this disintegrating world and all others. my fulfillment, of all and every purpose. you will bow. you will all bow. nothing will be as before.

5. i am everything. i am the world. i am you.

h.f.m.