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"DEAR BLANK CHALLENGE" PLEASE PLEASE READ THIS AND REPOST TRY TO KEEP IT GOING:  HELLOPOETRY "DEAR BLANK" CHALLENGE SECRET SANTA POEMS EXCEPT NOT SECRET AND NOT SANTA RANDOM ACT/POEM OF KINDNESS STRANGER POETRY APPRECIATION

I thought it might be nice to do like a secret santa thingy on hellopoetry only not secret and not santa… what I mean is, find a random stranger you literally have never met and do NOT know at all whose poetry you like and spend actual time genuinely reading their work, picking out your favorite lines and responding to them, pondering them, etc. Write something positive to them and post it as a poem with their name in the title. The “DEAR BLANK” challenge only you put their name instead of “blank”. I think we could all use a little recognition that we exist and are worth something since everyone seems a little depressed on here (including myself) which is fine, it’s a great outlet but it would be nice for people to just spontaneously find that a random stranger spent time in their life just to recognize you and care about your poetry. To write a kind poem/letter to them responding to lines in their poetry. If you need an example I just posted DEAR IMALRIGHT which was exactly what I meant. Check out imalright's poetry btw it is amazing.
I plan on doing for more than one person and I'd love for you to do the same. Spread a little kindness, we could all use a little.
Also message me if you are going to do the challenge and message the stranger you do the DEAR BLANK challenge for so they know to look for and read your poem.
I just thought that Imalright who was a perfect stranger to me seemed like a wonderful poet and a wonderful person based on her poetry so I chose her.
You do that too if you accept the DEAR BLANK challenge.
INCLUDE DEARBLANKCHALLENGE AS A HASHTAG IF YOU DO THE CHALLENGE SO EVERYONE CAN FIND THEM
please repost this over and over so we can get as many people involved as possible and try and make a difference in a couple people's lives because I just want to make everyone feel loved but I'm just one girl, I can't do it alone. Please help me with this and join me in the DEAR BLANK challenge. Take time out of your day to properly appreciate someone's poetry who you do not know.

PLEASE REPOST LET'S GET EVERYONE INVOLVED!!! ;D
THANKS!

-EMBER EVANESCENT
DEAR BLANK CHALLENGE
 Nov 2014 Jodie LindaMae
Enigmuse
My friends all think I'm crazy because I stand in the middle of the street and talk to a God that doesn't exist while high-fiving the windshields of passing school buses. I stopped taking my medication again because guilt taste a lot better than artificial happiness, and I stopped wearing that cross you bought me for my eight birthday because it contradicted the sense of uselessness I received for my twelfth. Life seems a lot less precious when you're talking to your parents in the TV room of a psychiatric unit and look them in the eyes while they tell me not to cry and say that 'pain is only temporary'. All I do is write letters to a man on the moon about the time I realized how hard and easy it is to die. Send me to therapy and make me take pills. I'll smile, but I'll always remember how to tie a noose
Find a Poet Not a poser, not a "it's just a hobby" poet. Find one who mumbles lines as they scramble for a pen at breakfast; who shakes their head randomly when their thoughts aren't rhyming properly;  who has notebooks stashed around the house that you must never touch.
2. Listen Savor the spoken words, for those are harder to express. Keep in mind that they can't be edited and re-written, and be forgiving when a mistake is made.
3. Read The body speaks as loudly as words on a page do. When their eyes are closed or focused on the ceiling and the fingers are tapping out syllables, recognize the unique process. Respect the need for quiet, because if you look closely, you can read the poem on their face before they write it on the page.
4. Write Write your story together. Grab hold of the pen and hang on as you move across the page of life. Sometimes you will dance across, others you will be dragged. You may have to cross out a word, or a line, or a page, but don't give up. Discouragement is a poet's biggest enemy, inarticulateness their biggest fear. So end each day with a semi-colon, because the story will never end the way you think it will, and there must be room for more. There is always room for more, more words, more laughter, more tears, more love,
When you love a poet.
Timmy
is dead,
got run over by a car,
so they said.
but
he's still on the lead that's
attached to my heart.
If you ever get close
to the fork in a path,
wander through the tectonics
that diverged the road
in the first place.

Every pixel of your being
is animated. Even the unlit
trap doors leaving pockmarks
on your mind's landscape
possess colors with no name.

Who knew electronic and acoustic
were just estranged family all along?
GENRE is a manmade affectation--
music appreciation for Jingoists.

If they feed you a raindrop,
swallow the entire ocean.
For Bjork <3
The year you were born
was the year I turned 6,
leaving my second home
to a place where I didn't exist.
It was the first time
I remember being scared,
of a knock on the door
to a dark street corner,
not a voice to properly
enunciate my fears,

hands trembling,
I was naught a writer then,
just a poetic mind
inable, hands not stable,
to open doors to
concrete streets,
the gentle ****** or
the careful cat,

daddy loves you,
under my breath.
He only had time to run,
from place to place,
the most logical option,
for his career,
but not his young girl.
The world's forgotten friend,
having not a voice,
to say hi at the door,
or accept the house-warming gift
from the neighbor girl.

Dear Fish the Pig,
The year you turned 6,
I hit puberty.
Grew tusks,
that kept inching,
toward a person
hidden in the swamp,
watching beneath reeds
the blondes and skinnies
courting Hercules.
An ugly pink pig,
jealous of the swans
gliding across water
drowning my squeals for approval,
left behind from highs and *** and flight.
Snarling away the bugs,
company that could have been friends,
retreating to being busy,
terrified of high school eyes
that adjust to the darkness,
and call isolation insecurity.
No worse a disease.

Dear Fish the Pig,
The year you hit puberty,
I lost my virginity,
my naked body
a prime scientific diamond
to the boyfriend who
just wanted to love me.
Two heads rested upon his bed,
vocal chords distilled,
when I replied "love you too,"
and felt hollow inside.
His mirror cracked
with my scraggly hair and fat.
I was a treadmill mess
with no time to stretch.
My secret of the weighted, edible variety.
How could he be skinnier than me?
So I traded being a pig
for the femme version al him,
and gleefully changed
my nickname from stocky
to skinny-Minnie,
until I could wear his pants baggy.

Dear Fish the Pig,
two years from now
you will be 19.
Let me remind you of something
from someone who is 23
and is still uncomfortable with her body:

Don't be.

To be is a simple mistake
with a complicated result,

Because
A haute girl fainting in university,
isn't martyrdom for beauty.
It is stupidity.
Purging friends for a toilet,
isn't just punny.
It is insanity.

Dear Fish the Pig,
Don't turn your fantasy
into my nightmare.

Don't sign the loneliness
that wastes me.
Don't bury yourself in dust
it doesn't feel as good as the dirt,
knowing the roots,
and working through their kinks.

Dear Fish the Pig,
I admire your honesty.
Your struggles
make for great poetry.
But idolizing a girl with
skin pale as white roses
also made a good story.
Longing is beautiful
with the promise
of a happy ending.
But depression
sporn from jealousy
isn't so pretty.

Dear Fish the Pig,
wear your tattered clothing,
blow my mind
with beautiful melancholy,
sit in that obscure place to reflect,
but never forget,
your life doesn't have to be an indie movie.
Weave words into beautiful tapestries,
but when you tire of their decor,
go out into the world empty.
Tint white walls joyfully.
Don't re-write my history.
The words in italics are those of Fish The Pig. Go check out her stuff @ http://hellopoetry.com/fish/. She is awesome!
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