A friend,
Who’s Godly,
Smart, and
Genuine.
A friend is a hand to lend.
A friend is a person you don’t have to make
Pretend.
A friend will never make your life
Bend.
So thank you friend, for being my
Friend.
Its because of you why I smiled so many
Grins.
A Friend.



-Marci H.

I draw my right arm close to my side ....Hold it tightly at the wrist with my left hand , signing for prescriptions that enable me to perform feats of physical ingenuity to get through my dark days ...Visibly shake at the checkout counter ,trying not to be seen or run away ! Check the yard hoping nothing is there ... Focus on one object , ride out vertigo , comb my hair every hour on the hour , make sure the water is still on ...... Eat pre-prepared meals , choke it down with water , drink black coffee in order to maintain my balance .. Look at the same ten photographs from another time and place , dust each picture , put them back in the exact location ...Check my face and arms for signs of disease , run fingers through my hair in search of parasites ....Count every step down the basement stairs to keep my self in order , walk the entire area looking for potential problems.. ....In between security checks I find the time to write ...The only thing in my life that really seems to help.. The insanity makes the write and the write reveals the insanity at times ....

I seek myself in this pen, and paper. I visualize my life on this sheet. Sometimes, I just lay in my bed and look up at the ceiling. Sometimes my heart races, and mind wonder for a title to “my life”. Sometimes it gets too boring saying life. Why couldn’t I just say, “the storm” or “my light” or “my rain”. Why “my life”? it has a lot of meaning, yes I do agree, but to take up my time my poetry I do read

Short or long I love writing my poetry, from cursive to chicken scratch, but now I’m in my bed trying to relax. Life doesn’t get any better. I’m freezing in this cold world with no sweater.

I love writing my poetry. Can you feel it a little bit? Can you feel yourself deep, caught up in a day dream? Seeking knowledge from your ceiling while God mellow words creep into your ears, can you feel it? The anger around, arouse your soul.

But yet I love writing my poetry. My poems are my home, my escape, my way of peace, sometimes I just want to sleep.

I love writing my
Poetry.
It's just apart of me.

-Marci H.

Feel the beat,
And feel the heat.
Never underestimate your feelings,
That’s such a discreet.
Move your head and
Tap your feet.
Swing your arms,
And move your hips.
Hop side to side
While this wonderful lust take you on a
Trip.
Taste the music notes.
Hear every tune.
Make it shine bigger and brighter,
Even deeper than the moon.
Can you feel it?
So soft and sweet,
So lovely, and so neat.
Listen to the music of my wonderful
Heart beat.
Can you hear it?



-Marci H.

****** fantasies can be quite
A desire.
Would it be best to do it with your
Secret admirer,
Or just a **** dude?
Would you call it rude
If you showed up at his house
****,
Having conversations about your
Tide tubes?
Is it true?
While time pushes by.
Is it real?
He sexing you and cutting you
Off like a deal
Will your heart heal?
Your fantasy desires coming
True,
With a man heart cold like
Steel.
Think about it,
Take a moment and think.
Not every man loves you.
Next min he’s there and the next
He’s gone like nair.
Babygirl it’s not love, its lust.



-Marci H.

Anticipation
Drugs. Hallucinations
Helter-Skelter
Sticky Situations
What's this life I'm living?
What should I do with it?
Breathe. Blow smoke
Time's going
My blood's flowing
But I'm bored, waiting
This **** isn't even the slightest bit
Entertaining
But it takes me away
Pushes the pain to another day
Numb.
Anticipating

Words,
Thoughts,
Emotions,
And life
Surrounds me in one.
As I begin to write
It all turn into fun, then as I continue,
It starts to turn into violence, and shoot out like a gun.
Everything is so peaceful,
In other people eyes,
But the stream of words,
Titles
And thoughts keep coming in remind,
That I am a poet.
I get the urge to write.
I’m like a crack addict,
Addicted to writing, staying up all night.
Afraid to stop.
Paranoid that the words will
Stay.
Troubled by my thoughts,
As Ink bleed in repay,
Of redemption and
Sequel  settings
The hard times of one’s life is mine,
Which is not forgetting.
I seem crazy and quite threating to others.
I talk to myself,
Just quiet,
Unexplainable mutters.
Poetry took my heart and ran,
Made it paper thin,
And red ink span,
Grey lead as a tan,
Poisoning my heart, and making it into flying paper
Cranes.
In only minutes,
Seconds,
I am done with a poem,
That is ******* with the ends of my storm.
I am the devoted,
Thoughtless,
Emotionless,
Lifeless,
Poet.



-Marci H.