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Meg Howell Jul 2018
I am writing this using a pen that was oh-so-kindly gifted to me by a kind old lady. She also gave me a cookie, but that’s beside the point. I think she knows that the best way to bribe college students is through food. I’m standing at the table beside a girl who I THINK is in one of my classes, but I still am not quite certain. She is the kind of athletic and strong that screams “this is the confidence that you’ll never have”. We’re both being shown a piece of paper with a minimal amount of writing on it, but an infinite amount of pure heart. The paper says a sweet word about prayer and doing well on finals and all that, but my focus is on the excessive amount of exclamation marks at the end of each sentence. I guess Presbyterians really are the Oprah Winfreys of religion. I forgot to mention that the old lady is Presbyterian. She is advertising a fall bible study led by college students, which, if I were not plagued with the constant assumption that I’ll never know how to socialize or make friends, I would be absolutely enthralled by. The truth is that I’ve been trying to get “plugged in” for a while now, but how can I get plugged in when my wire is frayed and everything I touch seems to smoke and burn at some point? My plug is a circle and the outlet is a square, so I guess it’s like that saying, “A circle can’t fit into a round peg”, or something like that. Anyways, I didn’t mean for this to become an analogy between being disconnected and electrical outlets, but it turned out that way. The old lady at the booth was nice. I hope to someday be that lovely. Although I was around her for a total of thirty seconds, I saw what it’s like to live a life not shrouded in a black cloud of fear. So, thank you, lady.
Meg Howell Mar 2018
The grandeur and intensity I have felt recently has clouded my mind like a fog brushing the top of a mountain at dawn.
The romanticization of our shared aspirations and desperation has left me mesmerized and hypnotized like the effects of a magician performing a conjuration. Not meaning to sound as cliche or pretentious as I know this will, you are my idea of a vacation. What u mean by this is that, when I’m near you, I want to stay this way until the inevitable sands of time run out. But I can’t. I can’t because most of life is work and you are my relaxation. You are a cup of hot tea when the icicles reign supreme outside. One day, I will see you every day. Even then, I know I won’t want those days to end. But end they must. So we face the test of time, wearing infatuation and admiration as our weapons, fighting the clocks and schedules that trail so closely behind. We fight and we fight and we fight.
Meg Howell Mar 2018
Fragile hands,
Weathered and cracked,
Grasping onto the neck of the swan
They are tough,
Yet, all the while, their reach is gentle,
And they glide with the swan to the pond’s lively middle


Up they go

   Ricocheting off the dancing beads of
       doing the tango,
         the salsa,

            and, at last,

Meg Howell Mar 2018
The toils of my hands,
The marks of my work,
I’m meant to find pleasure in these

Solomon’s words,
Gentle and stern,
Have genuinly provoked me
Meg Howell Mar 2018
My hands, my eyes, my heart
They’ve done me wrong in this time of need
I control these things, therefore,
I let these things control me
And now I’m desperately searching for an escape, a peace
You are the refuge
My luxury in a sea of mediocrity
And I cry out to the sky,
For my core is rotten,
I’m a dying pig swarmed with flies, choking on cotton
But with you I’m not forgotten,
I’ll never be forgotten,
Renew my broken heart
That’s all I crave
Meg Howell Mar 2018
A sour cherry,
The juice of a berry,
A broken canary,
A lullaby

Snow covered trees,
The nest of honeybees,
A cat with fleas,
A scene

Hands interlocked,
Traditional love mocked,
Insecurities docked,
A dream
Meg Howell Mar 2018
Is this an outer-body experience
Or a pretentious subsistence
There’s a dog barking at my built-up wall
Forming a pattern of careful consistence

I’ve never broken a heart but
I’ve broken every plan I’ve chosen to mess with
I’m slowly downing this regret and distrust like it’s freshly poured absinth

The sickness comes right away, which I oddly knew to begin with
I say that I’ll change someday, but I think I’ll probably stay this way

After all, I’m happy
When the salt isn’t in my wounds
After I’ll, I’m happy
When I’m sitting here with you
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