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Hannah Marr Nov 2018
Armed with vocal thoughts,
"I" speaks to "You;"
"I" being myself, a rebel-revolutionary,
and "You" being a like-minded individual.
This is a call to arms, my brethren of the pen,
a call to non-violent, passive-aggressive action.
As poets, as shapers of culture,
as heathen warriors of ink and paper,
we are, by unwritten definition, radicals.
We are master isolationists, visionaries,
unwitting weavers of the immense tapestry of time.
Each word, each thought, each image that is
translated from mind to word and deed,
is an instance of your exemplary credentials
in the world of genuine thoughtfulness
and uncomfortably candid philosophy.
"I," as a symbol of myself,
encourages "You," a like-minded individual,
to pick up your threads of thought and
tie comforting commonality into knots
of free thought and controversial honesty
that takes effort to unravel and understand.
"I," a wildfire, challenges "You," standing trees,
to wield your casually intense influence
towards the betterment of our scattered communities.
Draw on historical records,
on embarrassingly personal experience,
on relatable and unrelatable tails
of second-hand hearsay.
Draw on the words of our predecessors,
the ones who waxed lyrical
and the ones who rambled on a tangent.
Draw on the empathetic, mental-link
between "I" and "You" and "Everybody Else."
Take the whole of creation in your hands,
twist and mold it into a new shape,
then plant it in the ground to grow anew.
The words of "I" and the words of "You"
are a seismic catalyst.
All we have to do is trust,
trust in the thought of "You" and
trust in the thought of "I,"
and the poetry in the pages of your notebooks
will take their first, living breath.

h.f.m.
Hannah Marr Nov 2018
You roll the words around on your tongue.
They dance a feather-light staccato
against the back of your clenched teeth.
Motes of dust gather on your still lips.
Silence is a story you tell yourself before bed
and when you hear birdsong banishing the night.
A bonfire rages in the back of your throat.
The smoke stings your eyes.
You do not speak.
You do not cry.

h.f.m.
Hannah Marr Nov 2018
The sun rises and sets
yet it stays still;
the revolution of celestial stars
is motion in appearance only.
I go about my business but
day by day I stay the same,
perfectly still and unchanged.
The illusion of influence
is just as effective as the
effect itself.

h.f.m.
Hannah Marr Nov 2018
my staccato heartbeat drowns out your voice
but i trace the words on your lips all the same
as i strive to decode the message held
in your gentle eyes.

this language of joy i see
is a foreign one
that my tongue trembles with,
stumbling over simple phrases.

my breathing stutters under your adoring gaze,
and suddenly the air is gone from my lungs.
how can such fear, and such warmth,
coexist, side by side?

i'm burning up from the inside,
my stomach sitting like molten lead in my gut.
words sear my throat,
though i don't know what i am saying.

i am posed on the edge of a blade
with your soft hands on my shoulders,
balancing me, as you speak
words of encouragement and peace.

i would die a thousand times for this feeling.

h.f.m.
Hannah Marr Oct 2018
I see an angel's eyes
in a little girl's face,
peering out from under bangs
that are far too long.
She blows them away impatiently.

She asks, "Do you believe
in God? Do you know
what He thinks of you?"
Breath catches in my chest;
I  don't understand this fear.

She takes my hand gently
and leads me through snow
that obscures my blurry vision.
Her laugh travels sideways and
slips softly between my ribs.

Somehow I'm holding an apple.
"Eat it," she instructs me.
I take a small bite,
juice dripping from my chin.
"Doesn't life taste so sweet?"

"What do you wish for?"
Stars streak across the sky.
I inhale her jasmine scent,
exhale my chest of fire.
I wish to be free.

h.f.m.
Five words to a line
Five lines to a stanza
Five stanzas to a poem
5X5X5
Hannah Marr Oct 2018
i.
you are older than the stones beneath
your calloused feet,
but somehow you feel young,
still childlike in your naivety
despite the fact that the world
has conspired
to throw you to the rocks below.
the waves crash over your broken form,
but you are still gazing up
at the diving birds.

ii.
give this beach a washed up body,
these waves a soul to caress.
give these fish some bones to nibble,
these seagulls some remains to harass.
broken and battered,
bloated and blue,
they'd find you
on the stones with the surf
soaking your skin.
a gift to the sea
and whatever deity of death
that would come to claim
the spirit left behind.

iii.
alas,
if only oblivion were such
an easy acquisition.
you crawl from the sea-foam,
reborn anew in your silver-skinned glory.
they are distraught
by your survival,
but they should've known
that you will not die
until your time.
you cannot.
there are still things you must do
before you are granted your end.

h.f.m.
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