Not all lies are lyrical
Not every city is safe
Not all bruises are galaxy spirals
Not every spirit's a wraith

Not all poetry is written to please
Not every song will go viral
Not all jobs contain passion
Not every foe is a rival

Not all skies are this sunny
Not every rose has thorns
Not all of my thoughts are happy
Not every devil has horns

Not all of these demons are shadows
Not every rhyme can be catchy
Not all confessions are truth
Not every poet is happy

h.f.m.

noun

1. you call me pessimist— doubter, defeatist, doomwatcher. you might as well add dangerous, defiant, disruptive to your list. you dare label me? you who believe the common people —the world— can do no wrong? you prove my point, hypocrite. am i not a person with second chances? or am i entirely deserving of your up-to-now withheld scorn, merely for the fact that i now see the truth clearly and you remain pitifully blind?

2. how can i trust when all trust, again and again, is proven unfounded? people just want something from you. they always want something. you are dangerously naive to believe otherwise.

3. do not pity me. i care not for your sympathy. i prefer your revulsion, your loathing. at least then you know like i do. you know the truth —inherently we are selfish inherently we are self-centered inherently we are self-serving inherently we only care about self self self— i only care about myself. you only care about yourself.

4. bitter, sardonic laughter follows my every word. i know the truth because if all only care or self, they can only see if they don't even care that much. i am apathy incarnate, no emotion clouds my vision. i see all, and know that honor does not exist outside fantasy and fable.

h.f.m.

my native language is thought
and so spoken/written/signed language
frustrates me to no end

words do no justice
to what is in my head
like a photograph of a sunrise
taken with the first camera
or a drawing
of the northern lights
by a toddler

i am a novice when it
comes to voice/expression/communication
my thoughts become disjointed when
they leave my head
through my mouth/pen/hands

i cannot make myself understood
i cannot understand myself

hey, to whatever higher power is listening,
developing telepathic abilities would be nice about now

h.f.m.

Does a poet write only when he is sad?
Doesn't think so
But have heard so

Does a poet write only when he is upset?
Is writing a way to escape
From the world that hurt you a little too much?

Does a poet write only when he is depressed?
Why is his happiness not penned down?
Why is his prosperity not shared?

A poet doesn't write only when he is sad
All feelings, all happiness, all emotions
All of this is written

He writes when he is happy
He writes about the nature
He writes about everything and everyone

Poems are not always meant to be sad
They contain hope, love, peace
And so much more