Smile Baby

Smile, dear boy,
Sweet child,
Smile and don't let a thing
Stop you
Baby,
Small one,
Your time will come soon
Your time will come soon
But for now,
Be content,
And smile at everything
Sit on Santa's lap,
Resist your naps,
Learn to speak 
And crawl
And don't be grateful,
Just grow up
Say thank you
And please
And smile.

Syle

Style
Abbigail H.

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          "Eat your style" the old man said. His voice, gravely and deep, lilted the end of each word, wrapping me in what he was saying. I blinked.
          "What?" I asked, my throat was dry and my voice came out as bare as the branches of one of those trees that happen to lose their leaves in winter (not pines, because they like to stay green and fresh, I've noticed).  The man said nothing.  I blinked again and he was gone.

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Hmm... Pretty sure I spelled things wrong and misused words. If I did, please tell me. If not, enjoy. I'll grammar and spell check on my own later.

Not Terrible I Suppose

Not terrible I suppose
Abbigail H.

---------------------

There isn't a whole lot that I
Haven't screwed up
In my life
In some way or another,
But I've got to write this poem for class,
So at least I can try to get that done,
Though I haven't even started it right.

But I guess if you think about it,
I've never done drugs,
Which is a pretty good accomplishment,
Or drank alcohol,
Or skipped school,
Unless you're counting the days
I faked sick
So I wouldn't face the bullies.

I've never killed anybody,
Or cheated on my boyfriend,
Even though that's kind of ruined
Since I don't have a boyfriend.

I'm usually really good about
Grammar and spelling in my texts,
Unless I'm in a bad mood
Or trying to keep it short.
Punctuation doesn't count,
Does it?

And last year I stopped this kid
From killing himself about
Three dozen times...
Those were rough days,
And it might not have even been me
Who stopped him,
But he's still breathing,
So I'd call that an accomplishment.

And so far I haven't crashed the car
Or gotten pulled over
Or failed a class by the end of the term
I always try to get good grades.
It doesn't usually work out.
But I try.

And I suppose that
Trying isn't that terrible.
Because what else can you ask?
Nobody's perfect.
But everyone should try.
Not for perfection,
But at least try.
For something.

Different Style Practice

Different style practice
Abbigail H.

---------------------

               His eyes look at me. The soft blue of them staring into mine unsettles me deeply, prodding into my mind. His blank expression further bothers me. I fight the urge to squirm under his gaze. I look at him. I look away. Just for a moment. I look back. He notices. I can tell. Something in his eyes has changed. What did they look like before? Were they open and now they're closed? Are they disappointed, hurt, uncaring, amused? What does he see in my face? Am I giving him the same reaction he's giving me: this warm safety that is too revealing? Does he know? A squeal I barely suppress lifts up the corners of my mouth into a half-hearted smile. It goes away. I can't be smiling at him. My smile isn't pretty. It looks weird on my face.

              He smiles back and my stomack starts throwing a little party. My face relaxes and I smile back, but he's looking away. The television has drawh his attention yet again. I've blown it. I didn't stud nim. He doesn't like me. This is ruined. I might as well give up now. Love will never greet me the way I chase it. No, not it: him.

I'd give up forever to touch you
'Cause I know that you feel me somehow
You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be
And I don't want to go home right now

 

              The lyrics enter my mind and its backup vocals are a dozen other songs

I don't want to fall to pieces
Just want to sit and stare at you
I don't wasnt to talk about it
And I don't want a conversation
Just want to cry in front of you
And I don't want to talk about it
'Cause I'm in love with you

 

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This was part of a writing exercise for my Creative Writing class. I'm not sure that I accomplished what I was supposed to, but it feels good to get this out. Probably take it down later, though.

Shake

Shake
Abbigail H.

---------------------

Oh blessed moonlight gathering,
Your haunted beams so do caress
My shadow and should I forget to
Thank you, take my apology now
And run for the hills
For they are alive with the
Sound of
Musical crescendos swing dance with the stars
While unknowing bodies of Chrysanthemums
Bake a steamy casserole
Of every forgotten memory that has shaped my existence.

But don't forget about the monster
Under the bed.
He moved there last week, you know,
After feeling claustrophobic in the closet
Of befallen heartbreak,
And don't fall asleep yet, because,
As Watsky put it:
"Contrary to popular belief,
That's not where dreams are accomplished."
Or something like that.

Collection of Text Poetry

A collection of text-poetry
Abbigail H.

--------------------

HOLDING YOUR HAND
-----
When I hold your hand
My palm gets sweaty
And yours does too.
But I don't let go,
And neither do you
And we both smile
Becase it feels just right


WINTER MORNING
-----
Walking to school in the
morning,
When it's getting light but
the sun hasn't rised,
And the sun on the lawn sparkles,
And it's beautiful


AUTUMN
-----
I love it when I first notice
That the leaves aren't green
'Cuz that means autumn is
on its way
And it's a great season,
In its own way

John Gardner Killing Exercise

A writing exercise for Creative Writing
Abbigail H.

-------------------

     No. The word rings clearly through the man's head. He doesn't notice closing the outdated flip phone, or that the woman on the other end was still talking. He feels a bit dizzy. The street slants before him multiple times and the entire world begins to spin, using him as it's new axis.
     Someone asks him when the bus is supposed to arrive, but the voice is muffled and distant, echoing slowly in his head, trying to find a place to sit. The same someone thanks him and walks away. The man feels his mouth close. Did I speak? He wonders.
     It' s then that the cold hits him. A hard cold, so intense he starts shaking immediately. He can feel the marrow draining from his bones and filling back up with frozen lead. His emotions and thoughts soon follow suit.
     Somewhere in the back of his head he hates that he's wearing a t-shirt and jacket. He hates the levis donning his legs. They're a burden that he wants to be free from. The anger swelling up inside of him is almost enough to make itself known against the darkness that now shades his mind.
     "Hey!" The word slices through a fog, driving itself deep into his consciencesness. It is an eternity before he is able to drag his eyes up form the sidewalk to the smelly bus driver who wears a blue shirt the color of dust. The man is embarassed for him.
     He tries to move his legs but someone walking by must have nailed his shoes to the cement. The man's eyes shake themselves back down slowly, as the driver looks away and the bus slowly crawls off, leaving him only with the exhaust billowing up to his face. He breathes it in, willing it to carry him away.
     His eyes blur into nothing as he stands there, staring down, as the cold gets worse and clouds cover up the sky, catching on to his mood. He fixates on a bug scuttling about by his feet, the only clear thing now, and finds himself thinking about it intently.
     A salty raindrop rolls down his nose and hangs there and he blinks his sore eyes. The ocean must be cryinging, he thinks.