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Hannah Apr 2017
The innocence of the moon
outweighs the crooked way
the stars hate the light of day.
Hannah Apr 2017
love takes time
~
you cannot rush
the blossoming
of a delicate red rose.
Hannah Apr 2017
She will cradle her own soul
within her hands,
and treasure her precious life ~
holding it tight.
She will not slip away,
like sand lost to the wind.
~ for anyone fighting suicide,
do not slip away ~
Hannah Apr 2017
Do you think
they will lay
white roses
at my feet,
after my heart
ceases to beat?
~ dark thoughts at 2:07am ~
Hannah Apr 2017
and without her ~
you will never be whole.
Hannah Apr 2017
I can hear love
in the hardest rainfalls,
and see it blossoming
in the blooming roses.
It is easy to find
when you know
what to look for,
and easier to hold
when you have
a delicate hand.
Hannah Apr 2017
I started writing
to get the pain out.
I needed a way
to claim a voice
in a ruthless world.
I couldn't find it
any other way.
I've tried everything,
but nothing
gives me a voice like poetry.
I've found things
that numb my pain,
like whiskey
and cigarettes.
I use them still,
even since
I've found my voice.
I'm addicted
to the way
they pair with my soul.   
It's kind of like
poets and coffee,
poets go well
with whiskey
and cigarettes too.
I think us poets,
we're addicted
to pain and suffering.
I think we like
the sting of heartbreak,
the pain of death,
the clutches of addiction.
In fact,
I know we do
because these
are the sufferings
that make up our work.
I'm a poet,
just like you.
I'm addicted
to coffee,
to whiskey and cigarettes,
to pain and suffering,
to loss and heartbreak.
I think it's why
so many of us
struggle to look
into the mirror.
It's because we know
our hearts are poison.
It's because we know
we can either
be monsters or angels.
It all depends on us,
on how we want
to roll the dice.
~ monsters or angels ~
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