Zach Hanlon Mar 18

A prisoner on death row, sighing contendedly.
No one was ever sure of his crimes,
but his sentence was clear from the start.
His cell was always absurd,
his life always a mystery.

But now he finds peace.
He has nothing except what he knows;
and what he knows is his end.
It isn't much,
yet it's more than anyone free
has ever had.

Zach Hanlon Jan 26

There once was
a destructive creator,
breaking his creations
beyond repair.

He burned his bridges,
erased his words,
and broke his
loathsome, creating hands.

The despairing creator,
with nothing left to create,
and nothing left to destroy,
wept.

Impulsive creator,
with your empty notebooks,
and empty canvas,

what have you now?

Zach Hanlon Jan 26

it never really    ends

          numb   from  the cold
                                                                        I can't hear you
                   it courses
                                  through
                                         my body

   riptides of
             frustration

                                                   where did the
pulling me in                                                     tide go?

            drowning in the
                                         regrets                          
                                                                ­                     I can't swim
I can't breathe
                                                       ­  seeping through the cracks

   as the floodgates open

                      flowing,
                            ­           flowing

   waiting for   calmer seas
                                                          
 ­                                                       I can't breathe.

Zach Hanlon Jan 12

When the sun burns out,
and the stars slowly fade,

the skies will shatter.
The earth will quake.

Our past forever gone,
our future never found.

We'll run 'til the ground gives
and we turn to ash.

The end will come,
and time will be put to rest.

All will fall
when the sun burns out.

Zach Hanlon Jan 12

Puppet, puppet,
dance to my whim.
Squirm under string,
and bend to my will.

Puppet, puppet,
hear my call.
Listen only to my word,
and never anything more.

Puppet, puppet,
ever breaking.
Your strings will snap,
and you will fall.

Puppet, puppet,
where have you gone?
Who am I
without my marionette?

Puppeteer, puppeteer,
where did you
get your strings?
who do you dance for?

Was I ever the puppeteer?
Zach Hanlon Jan 8

From Dusk til Dawn,
waiting for the ghosts to leave,
and the sun to rise again,
I ache for morning.

Sitting in the Dusk,
nervous of the dark closing in.
Will I make it to the light?
Or wither like a starved flower?

Sitting in the Dusk, I realize
there's no point in patience.
The Dawn can never lift
the darkness clouding my mind.

Sitting in the Dawn,
I patiently waited for the Dusk to leave;
yet it never did, and I realize
I'm so tired.

This poem is either terrible and cringey or ok, I cant really tell which so here it is.
Zach Hanlon Nov 2016

I am just words on your screen.
Every letter, every line;
weightless in a blank world.
I have no voice.
I do not speak.
You continue to read.
And once the words end,
my life will have been nothing more
than a run-on sentence.

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