Mean heart

22

Nights of, "please don't leave me"

And days with, "I don't need him"

I'll hide behind my fingers

Wetness on my eyes

They give me all these choices

They show me all these wonders

Does it make a difference?

We all run out of time

So silence all their voices

And rip them of their plunders

Just shred their rules to pieces

With nothing left alive

Mornings held in limbo

Evenings slipping, whipping by

I'm choking on my pleading

Desperate for replies

There's strength within me somewhere

With more I could pretend

To keep myself from finding

The truth in all my lies

-HM

Not

Do not be frightened 

Of absolute naught

There is no place here 

For tears or for thought

You may quake and resist 

The touch of my hand

And try to remember

But will not understand

The voices that scream

Shall be the worst to ignore

And the voices that whisper

Shall plead evermore

For neither can bend 

At the waist to the other 

And neither can make 

Drastic change for the other

I will replace the

Experience of time

Your body, your words

The strength of your mind

Please do not cry 

As you take your last breath

For I am your comfort

I am your death.

-Hannah May

The Beast

It's clawing the floors and shaking the ground,
Pushing and threatening to turn this around.
Fleeing from it will bring your defeat,
But give me your hope and you won't be beat.

I am the flame and the fire on tongues,
The taste of the fight thrust from the lungs.
I see past the grit and smoke in the skies,
Caked on the lids that's staining the eyes.

I speak for the truth that breaks from the lips,
Cracking and bursting and gushing in fits.
I tear at the borders that split it apart,
Spewing the lies; destroying the heart.

I carry the fist that whitens the skin,
So wrought with distress. So callous within.
These are the many, so desperate for hope
Clenching their teeth, trying to cope.

I am devout with strength in my soul
Showing the truth and the hurt as a whole
I'm calling for change, not for the beast.
That's all I want, to say in the least. 





In memory for those who die for a revolution.
Political science is not my thing, but the fires still burn in places with corruption and without change.

-HM

Waste of Space

I would rather feel
The Earth on my skin
The hot beating heart
Of iron within
It crushes the skull
The crust of the land
Churns frothing seas
While shifting the sands

I would rather think
That all is alive
Compressing and spinning
The pulp of our lives
Because after all
We can't be alone
Wheeling through space
On a rock we call home

-HM

Threads

Interwoven to create diagonal valleys
Just about as wide as the space between papillary ridges...
Down the thigh
The calf and shin
They cross and dance in such tight formation.
Looping araound the ankle.
Serrated edges
Like the hem of a knife
Dangling limp and stringy
The threads
Stripped from their narrow and uniform weave
Hang.
The Precipice of the Shoe is a precarious fall
The loose tangle that keeps an involuntary grip on the taupe, crusty strands holds.
The eldest cords suspend the farthest.
Their toes yanked by the heel of the Shoe.
As some perish
Ripped from the others who were once twined so close...
Shear, bitter sympathy from the threads just above the ankle
At the knee,
Those laugh at the horror, so removed
The Shoe descends upon water.
Dangling wet and stringy.

threads


-HM

Nature Rises

A sweeping city,

Let go by time.

A house with wood,

A dusty shine.

Vines are creeping,

On wood bearing stains,

Tendrils coiling,

Grasping remains.

Linoleum's cracked,

From roots and rough bark.

The tree, embracing,

The house grows dark.

A burst of light, 

The roof falls away,

Limbs fully clothed,

Let in the day.

The curtains dappled,

Inside out.

A field of weeds,

Go roundabout.

A spine of forest,

Crumbles the walls.

And with time,

The house falls. 

Trees throw shade,

On ruins below.

With desire to live;

Beauty to grow.

A natural return,

To the bountiful place,

Where herbs and the like,

Find plentiful space.

-HM

Tick Tock

I've got the wind of ticking, 
Dashing across my skin.
Dodging 'round the goose bumps,
Cackling at my whim.

Running for my life to keep,
Racing on towards death.
Waiting for the time to trip,
Grasping at my breath.

I've got the hand of turning,
Tightening up the slack,
I'm running,
Out of thread,
But I'm never looking back.

-HM