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More I write,
aboot her,
it might make her real.
When I write I feel closer to someone who doesn't exist.
When did I become so bitter?
Used to be the guy seeing a bag and pick up the litter,
now I watch it blow by,
less of a smile and more of a sigh,
my kid, my teenage self would never want to be this guy,
singing loudly used to be a habit,
now I just write sad poems on a laptop or tablet,
not the type you come to,
because all my colors are gone cept for blue,
what happened to you?
when did I become so sad?
instead of always seeing good,
now its just all bad,
not optimistic nor real,
just writing to make me feel,
but it doesnt help like i need it,
I used to finish a poem and sigh off the ****,
but now I'm consumed bit by bit,
by this world,
by my life,
by my past,
used to smile while finishing last,
dreaming was a hobby and I would want to sleep,
now I run away from dreams and stay awake till the alarm goes beep
when did I get so bitter?
used to take care of drunk friends like a sitter,
now the days are gone and I'm drinking alone,
waiting by the phone,
but not answering the call,
I used to see girls and feel my heart stall,
and smile when they looked my way,
now their eyes look and say,
what happened to you?
Why am I so bitter?
Just oot of it tonight I guess.
 Dec 2013 Hallee
g
Library
 Dec 2013 Hallee
g
You walk through the doors of the library and everything is in it's familiar place on every dust covered shelf. Somehow the feeling of it's untouched surfaces intrigue you (probably because you envy the hidden finger prints).

You open the first book and it breathes a hard nastolgia into your face. The sound of the porch swing is the first thing you hear, and the library is transformed into a summer's night. You feel the rush of your lover's touch and you wonder how it is possible to ever move on from that night and from the sounds of "I love you," in your ear.

The next book you pick up has a strong spine and thick pages. Everyone knows this must mean it lacks a good story but you wonder why that is so. Simply because it has been untouched? You long to be the unbent book on that splintered shelf with no crumbled pages or folded corners of someone's favorite things.

You refused to open the next book you saw, and yes, you judged it by the cover.  I suppose he judged you by the cover, and you could feel the weight of "you're not what I thought you were." It lives over your shoulders like an angry cloud and you hope to God there is a window to bring sunshine into this room.

Looking down the row of books you see one out of place, different from the rest.  With a gentle hand you pick it up and feel it's weak pages between your fingers stained with tears. You know that this book has been in the possession of many and even has a few tears the further into it you read. You wonder if this is how you appear. (fragile and weak) or if maybe the bold print you see on every page speaks louder than the condition each corner is in.

The next book you find is a childhood memory, and it was always one you'd love to relive.
You missed the sound of your father's voice, but the memory was as good as the father who knew how to leave. The baggage may have been heavier than his own suitcases, but you forget that all because you were back at your eighth birthday party, and the smile he had was one you'd never forget.

You close this book lightly and grab the one directly behind it. It's a fairytale, and the exact way you always imagined your life to be. Your eyes scan every page quickly but as you near the end you read that walks in the park are not always perfect in fact they can often be filled with tears and the little girl in a dress is broken inside scratching her story into every page of this fictional disillusion.

The last book you grab is one that shouldn't have intrigued you. You sit on the only piece of furniture, besides the dusty shelves; a wooden chair infront of a fireplace. The story displays you and him, and the future you wish you had.
The book starts out at a wedding, but it isn't yours. In fact, the only thing sentemental about it is the way he squeezed your hand when they said their vows.  You scream to make the story stop, but your eyes never stray.  The book ends with you alone. Ironic, isn't it? Because you were always alone, even when he was yours and everything felt complete. The wooden chair breaks as you move to burn the book, and the flames help bring the story to life and every lie fills the walls. The library becomes a labrinth that will never release you.

The chair is a mirror to your heart.

You are alone with the writing on the walls and that is all that is left of you.
I cant deny it,
another night of a lonesome fit,
craving to be in love with someone all over again,
but to craven to talk to a girl even then,
just wanting to not go through the steps,
at the same time I do,
I guess I am just a mess,
and fall in love with every girl that shows me the least bit of kindness,
or attention,
so I'll sit in my isolation detention,
dreaming of a girl who's face is gone every time I wake,
chasing an invisible girl for chasing's sake,
and this ****** big bed has teeth,
I just need some beautiful thief,
to steal some covers.
I feel like this one has too much self pity, ******.  She has to come sometime, right...right? ******.
 Dec 2013 Hallee
berry
Untitled
 Dec 2013 Hallee
berry
this is not a poem. this is a plea. this is me begging you to hear me when i tell you that i love you. my voice is weak and shaking like the branches of a willow in the wind. my hands are trembling like tremors under the surface of the earth. my vision is so blurred that i can barely focus my eyes as i type. i can feel the impending collapse of my lungs as they are further crushed by the weight of all my anxieties. my strength is fading, but i'm still screaming for you, only you don't seem to hear me. i'm reaching for you but you won't take hold of my hand. i swear to god i'm trying with everything i have to hold you together, but i'm terrified it's not enough. the very thought of your nonexistence consumes me in a fear i have never known. i have never been good at telling people i need them, but i can tell you how vacant this world would be if you left it. everything would change. you can't come in to my life like you did and then just leave it with no warning. you can't do that to me. you can't tell me that you want to marry me and then try to disappear without so much as a goodbye. you just can't. so i don't mean to make you feel guilty, i just need you to understand. don't you know what it would do to me if you left? how many times are you going to almost-die before you realize i will never be the same if you do?
 Dec 2013 Hallee
berry
Untitled
 Dec 2013 Hallee
berry
i can't remember when i last heard your voice
and i need you to know that i miss you.
but i don't think the words alone are enough.

i miss you.

I MISS YOU LIKE A BLIND MAN'S BULLSEYE.

I MISS YOU THE WAY A POOR MAN MISSES A ROOF OVER HIS HEAD.

I MISS YOU LIKE THE RUMBLING IN HIS UNFED STOMACH.

I MISS YOU LIKE THE COLD ACHY SPACE IN THIS HALF-EMPTY BED.

I MISS YOU LIKE EVERY POEM I ALMOST WROTE BUT FORGOT ABOUT BEFORE I FOUND A PEN TO WRITE IT DOWN.

I MISS YOU LIKE A FORGOTTEN BIRTHDAY.

I MISS YOU THE WAY JANUARY MISSES GREEN.

I MISS YOU LIKE MY FATHER'S BEDTIME STORIES.

I MISS YOU LIKE THE LAST TRAIN HOME.

MY CHEST IS CAVING. MY LUNGS ARE SHRIVELING,
AND WITH MY LAST BREATH I WILL SCREAM
THROUGH SPACE AND TIME - I MISS YOU.

IT'S TRUE, WHAT ALL THOSE POETS SAY ABOUT THE SUN & MOON - THAT THEY ARE GOING TO KEEP CHASING EACH OTHER FOR ETERNITY, THAT THEY WILL NEVER KNOW ONE ANOTHER'S TOUCH. SO I AM SENDING UP VENDING-MACHINE PRAYERS TO A MAY-OR-MAY-NOT-BE-THERE GOD, BEGGING HIM TO CLOSE THE GAP BETWEEN YOUR FINGERS AND THE SPACES BETWEEN MINE.

- m.f.
a special thanks to my friend Sydney, who is the mind behind the "blind man's bullseye" line.
Going back to that empty house is my biggest fear,
walk in the door and everything gone,
and no cigarette smoke to make everything clear,
with no best friend and no running water, this isnt real its a con,
it has to be,
I'll pack as fast as I can just to get out to sea,
leave my small town and just leave,
but its never so simple for packing takes time,
and I'll tell myself everything will be fine,
but this anxiety is a stone in the bottom of my stomach,
that never stops rolling,
this is no home anymore just a doorway,
to a place that I can not stay,
so I'll run away as far as I can,
and all the memories from the past month from my mind I'll ban,
look back someday and think they wore better,
but by then happiness will hopefully be in my grasp or in within reach,
because I'll be serenading girls who dont know what I'm saying,
at the beach.
I'll take off and look on my biggest small town and feel sad.  Just because nostalgia is a hell off a drug.
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