Bad Weather

🌦️ ✨ Don’t worry- my notes app gets the worst of it

[becomingpoet]

It is all over-

At its end, years past.

I am not the same as I was.

I will not be the same again.

This is where Hannah

Ends.

[becomingpoet]

Times are still tough. I resent being tougher.

[becomingpoet]

Formal Vent No. 1

Feels like I only get credit for the things I do wrong. When I mess up, no one else ever has questions about where the blame should fall.

Likewise, no one has questions when I do something right. Instead, they assume the person responsible is whoever is closest in proximity to me. I never get the credit for what I do well. I am never credited for the help I offer or the slack I pick up.

And despite only getting credit for bad and never for good, people never stop asking me for more and more and more.

Almost like they know I’m the one to be credited and simply don’t care to. I’m just a receptacle to pull shit out of. I’m just a resource for you to mine.

I want out.

[becomingpoet]

Carrot soup ft sweet potato inclusion, bay leaves, celery salt, miso, and bone broth. I’m letting her cool and then I’ll breakout my blender to make it creamy. May or may not add heavy cream if the sad gets stronger.

[becomingpoet]

I think my poetry tumblr- and my poems- are pretty dead. It seems I’ve become someone new. I don’t think I write anymore.

I’ll be using this space as a diary, and as a space for venting all the sad shit I can’t swallow anymore and can’t put anywhere else.

So like, adjust as needed. This tumblr is made of salt now

[becomingpoet]

I’d almost forgotten

That I spent the night dreaming we were together again

I almost forgot how you smiled at me

How the smile reached your eyes

I almost forgot how you laughed off our past

And pulled me into your chest

Like you used to

I’d almost forgotten, and it wasn’t until now, stood flat footed in the kitchen

Making carrot soup, stirring in dollops of miso

That I remembered

That I realized leaning my face into the steam and curling myself around the warmth of my stove

Was not the first time I’d been warm today

Was not the first time I felt at home today

And now that I’ve remembered

I am out in the cold again

Thank god for hot soup- it’s almost ready

[becomingpoet]

Another year rises

In the silence of fresh fallen snow

Uncommon for this time of year

This snow-cradled midnight welcomes

A new beginning as eyes refocus

On December, on the hours mothers labored

To bring us into this world

A world people both dread, and dream of, leaving

Today, our vision is better than a newborn’s but not by much

The white and chocolate brown bark of trees blends, blurs into the charcoal grey skies

A minimalist marble of neutral color

How children would’ve fought to see this midnight

How fascinating they would find the sky and the way it never gets fully dark

Adult now, we get to explore the newness

Of winter and of the first magic I knew

Of cold and of heat

Snowbanks as tall as a Buick

An actual fire crackling in the hearth

Cocoa poured into snowmen cups

With peppermint spoons

All over again

This December

Everything we have known of life

Finds its way back to the earth

I wonder what more I will know

Who I will meet

What I might do

How I’ll leave tracks behind

In new places, latent as

A child’s first steps in the snow

[becomingpoet]

There is more to me than I can say, but there is only so much that can be said, and only so much that you are capable of believing.

[polyhedric-dimension]

Who are you when you're not performing?

[becomingpoet]

I am no one.

There is no me beyond performance.

Behind lowered curtains, I am only a marionette: stiff and high-strung, unblinking and silent.

When I am not performing, I am slumped over in a frown, out of sight and out of my mind with the desire to be real.

To be flesh and blood that dances.

[becomingpoet]

I hold you to me soft as a tender wound: open, red- raw. I’m careful not to squeeze. You’ve lost enough blood to me.

[becomingpoet]

I look for you everywhere

So why haven’t I found you yet?

2-27-25

[becomingpoet]

I never grew past being soothed by touch

Or regulating my own body by being close to someone else’s

I’ve always listened to your heart when I rest my head on your chest

I can’t mature past these simple comforts

Words can’t do for me what quiet,

Hot skin can

3-27-25

[becomingpoet]

There is still ice on my windshield

In the second week of April and I’m tired

I am ready to wash winter out of my hair

And let spring coil and curl as the air warms

The trees hesitate to bud and I can’t blame them

But day by day, life peeks its head outside

And the sun doesn’t run from the sky

4-12-25

[becomingpoet]

It’s crazy how things come back to you

Smoke wafting from long canes of green apple incense that your mom burned

In the shade of a four seasons room in the house you grew up in

Now drifting through the stairwell of your apartment building

Fifteen years and fifty miles away

And mom nowhere in sight

4-13-25

[becomingpoet]

The beauty of your heart and soul overflows into your writing. Thank you for the vulnerability of your sharing. 🖤

Thank you for your kind words, and for taking the time to read my little things. The vulnerability is what keeps us human. 🤍

[becomingpoet]

Stretch, bend, lift, repeat:

workers joke among themselves as a

family labors under a swaddling of heather clouds

to protect memories from rain and vultures alike.

Our energy dissipates but the pile grows.

The coffeemaker lays on its side in the grass.

Brother, sisters, mother orbit the mass-

supermassive-

and we all agree that the house must be empty by now, because

here’s our whole world dumped on the corner-

here’s our whole word, dumped on the corner.

[becomingpoet]

May through October

I have not been home in many months, returning only now to take stock of all that I left behind before I leave it again.

I can’t say that I’ve been terribly unhappy. This summer was busy in many of the ways we might wish for: warm conversation, warm food, warm lakes- warm bodies. Beautiful and sun-struck. Happiness was not scarce that I can recall. I am haunted by the thought its real name may have been pleasure all along.

Likewise, I can’t say I’ve been silent. The conversations flowed more freely than the beer; although, there was plenty of that too. Song was my friend nearly every day, and I am better at it than I ever was before. It’s true that the thought brings me significant pleasure.

There it is again…

Underneath all of the flowers and farmer’s markets, despite every ladybug and Libra, I am restless. Change hides behind everything and I am suspicious of this pastoral interlude. Of this pleasure. Of this beautiful autumn. I am suspicious of how I sing along with the melody the turning earth sings, no matter how it clashes against the background of everything needed everywhere. Winter on the way, and yet, I am warm.

It’s out of character for me. Something is up. Something is changing. Accelerating. The words are in my fingertips again, and that has not been the case for many months.

It’s not exactly that I’ve been happy- that’s not quite right…

It’s more like, I’ve been taking pleasure. Despite.