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they said the clown was sorrow-shaped.
so I looped up in greasepaint—
swallowed a sunbeam,
coughed out a smirk,
and called the ache comedy.

somebody whispered
i fear the bruise.
nah,
i catalogue it.
line breaks for scars,
syntax for shame,
run the hurt through a voice modulator
’til even god can’t tell if i’m praying or riffing.

i’m not dodging the wreckage.
i just built a couch in it.
named the crater: “home?”
drank laughter from a cracked thermos
and kept warm in the glow of a rerun i never starred in.

i’ll play the ghost
if the script pays in quiet.
but don’t staple my name to your healing
and call it holy.

the truth?
clowns rot too.

some nights
i wanna peel off the latex,
lose the joke,
shave the wig,
and just exist—
not perform pain
in a dialect
you can quote later.
Dear Ela

    I wish I could put into words
    The way you made me feel—
    Loved and worthy, proud and strong.
    You helped my heart to heal

    So many times you held my hand,
    So many times I fell.
    So many days I’ll miss your voice
    When we’ve finished this farewell

    Thank you for all that you’ve done
    For choir (and for me)
    I wish you success, good health too
    And that you’ll be happy

With love, that one junior who always cries :P
This senior has been ridiculously kind and understanding to me, and I've been so blessed to have known her. Still, I can't find the courage to send her this, I dunno why.
I love to walk through cemeteries
reading all the stones.

Not the names so much
as the stories that are told.

I really like the old ones
where the live oaks grow.

And the dead lie in shaded
gardens planted all in rows.

Marble angels look towards heaven,
with weathered wings and robes.

stone cherubs represent nameless babies
from a hundred years ago.

Fine cut pillars of the hardest stone,
mark graves of rich men who died alone.

and in the farthest corners
the small cement stones.

barely readable names
of people no one knows.

But the soil is no worse
here than it is over there.

And the angel in the center
just pretends to cry.

Honestly, she doesn't care.
There is a tiny cemetery across the street from my driveway it's a family cemetery. the family owned a plantation years ago most of the stones are the same last name except for a few in the corner which are just unmarked pieces of slate.  I was told these were graves of some of the house slaves.
Servant and Master all share the same place in the end!
 May 22 pilgrims
Dan Hess
Writhing is the brain, hair stood on end, 

with every beat of the eldritch heart. 

The air, a-buzz with cacophonous, insectoid droning, 

threatening to infiltrate and indoctrinate the mind;



twisting languid listening into a maddening gaze,

ablaze with hate and lacking sophistication. 



I cling, with fingers tensed, to the heavy, sticky rot

that lingers thickly in the air, 

and all my cares are gnawing at my soul. 



Something stirring deep within has heightened, 

and I’m frightened, finding myself once again 

scared of the dark. 



A darkness creeping deep within my dreams, 

which, snaking, strangles me; and when I wake 

I find I’m face down in contorted misery, 

like something ghostly sought to swallow me

alive. 



Wretched wasteful 

-undue, unholy and unsanctioned- 

sour tasting, ugly, rank: 

anxiety
Haven't written anything in quite a while. Maybe using poetry as a vehicle for catharsis will help with that.
 May 22 pilgrims
Dan Hess
Storms are not born
They are old as light
You cannot have power
but it is harnessed

There is no such thing as a river
but it shapes as it flows
You can only hold your breath for so long

The mind is a sieve
and a lattice
The heart, a prism
and a fathomless ocean

The world is a pebble in that dark;
a nascent dream
There is no loss of innocence
We are eternal, spanning across time

Only the eye knows,
before the mind’s grasp
All else is distorted

Once a flower blooms,
in that moment, it exists forever
There is nothing in creation that can change it
All is forever changed because of it

Power is but a ripple, or an echo
There is only embrace

From the start, we are entwined,
integrated solely with truth
All of life seeks to replicate this intimacy,
but only death can
 May 22 pilgrims
lorelei
rivers tell a tale
of the things that come and go
the world's quiet here
the sun spills warmth
across the countryside
and the flowers smile

waving their tiny leaf hands
to greet the new day

so I smile with whispers of love
as if the wildflowers are my children.

the elusive thrushes
hidden among the bowing willows

whisper sweet songs.

the tiny bird angels
not so far off.

those tiny angels

far from the silences that **** you inside.
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