HansL writes ✍️

Some days writing is pure frustration, but it helps to know every word written is helping make me better at it (even if sometimes it's learning what not to do!).

I always think back to the advice by Ira Glass that Zen Pencils made a great comic about. The thing about that advice is, I think when you're creative your ambitions increase with your skill so we're constantly chasing better. You don't ever stop needing to practice, striving to improve and grow as an artist, and that's probably the way it should be.

Would you scream with me Drive through the night The flickering fear of my wish growing with the shadow of every streetlight we pass along the way Where are we going...is it any better than where we've been?

Would you scream first When the sound sticks in my throat So desperate to open up that I shutdown at the magnitude of everything so long held in I can't, I can't, I can't - my usual refrain echoing endlessly inside my head A habit hard to break (don't let go, play nice, stay quiet) I can't. My voice breaks instead (I break a touch more with each second I deny myself)

Would you scream louder and longer Holding steady, an unwavering faith that I will join you (holding me steady without a touch) Your voice a rampage of emotion...what does it say? Is it my rage reflected and given over so much more easily by you? Is it a rallying cry? Telling me over and over: let go, just let go Or is it another thing entirely? A love song too raw for words

Would you scream with me, just because I asked No persuasion required, no second guessing My request a call to action taken up immediately Your pleasure evident at any way to help, however strange or brief

i am the very definition of self-destructive i say, with no shame it's automatic, symptomatic simply, a fact of life unfair and terrible and mine to claim

who was i meant to be if not this i don't regret anything i wouldn't change a thing wouldn't risk all i have for a different person in the making because this made me me

i am the very definition of broken but i am not wrong i view the world from another angle unexpected but sorely needed my time is limited but i'm not ready to be dismissed

If I write a story good enough Will someone adore me Will they overlook my faults In favour of my way with words Will they love the character inside me Enough to put up with everything else

The marks my characters have Those mean something special A cool backstory to tease out If I give them my scars... Maybe those will be lovable too Meaningful, to them more than to me Dissected until they make sense, Merely building character, effortlessly

Can I practice my confessions in another voice Pretend it's only for the narrative While I lay bare all my sins While I open up my heart Here's a scrap of me put out into the world If you can love the worst of me The villain of the piece Maybe there's still hope

i want to be brilliant and i am not nor cocky enough to claim a place in the world all the same

i want to be brilliant sharp, en pointe missing no moves but these things i don't do, except in freeze frame

i want to be brilliant i want to know how to do the impossible, the improbable just...everything i dream of

i want to be brilliant and i am not seen or heard a pale imitation of a thousand more like me, but better than me incrementally

I don't know what I want I'm meant to, aren't I? I'm meant to wax lyrical about love I'm meant to speak from the heart But, what if, what if What if, I'm not sure What if, it could be romance And only, what if

I'm meant to want to kiss them I'm meant to want to be close And I don't not want that Yet...I worry What if, we don't work What if, the fantasy is better than Whatever reality provides

My dreams are good enough So why try to win Something I'm not assured Someone who could say no

Maybe 'no' I could take Maybe disappointment would be okay But the wait...that wait The unknown might be more comfortable Than finding out it's hopeless

I remember the first time I saw this post here, in 2017 I think? It made me feel so much I had to write a poem about it, but I never shared it anywhere before until I replied to the post a while back, but I don't know if that actually worked because it doesn't seem to show even on the post reblogged on my own blog oddly. So, technically this is a repost I suppose but it means a lot to me.

What Can We Be

I've got something for you Tied up with a bow Is it pink? Is it glittery? Is it pretty? That's what I think I'm meant to wonder - not of stars seen from afar, nor the burning glow of chemicals, or indiscreet numbers doodled - I think I'm meant to care about that Every girl asks But she doesn't know yet Entirely What the world is Or what she ought to be There are the hints though The creeping sense of what she should let go The push into putting on a show  

There is something for her Something amazing in scale Something shiny with a sharp gleam Something pretty wonderful Something that gives and gives Past that one time The moment you don't chide At the dirt and mess that might be The second you don't hesitate To congratulate her at biting cleverness Or when you don't separate her From her unexpected new interest The point where you throw caution to the wind And agree, let's do this, let's take a risk

Build a rocket, climb a mountain Whatever it is, let them Get out there Because it's not about someone genteel, really Being a girl isn't about staying pristine Growing into a woman who has held back Who holds back every day, not sure What to say, what to do What it is they will let you Get away with Who treats this As if, maybe, it isn't a gift Not for her Only a place she's been allowed If she can get it right somehow

We should say, away with that With the sketchy lines And the plastic wrap To keep the dolls pretty As a picture, a painting imitating something we're calling life No, what we need today, is Something for her Not for all the others, trying to control every speck of dust Keeping the scene just so, with rights to adjust us Not a gift given with expectations upon expectations Subtle layers, of how you must 'like' because we pronounce this With an ever present pretence of protection to it we can't miss

sending out a message waiting for a reply a pinpoint of connection does it reach anyone alive my fingertips grazing another however fleetingly the code of something other than survival

I want to know does it matter what I say do my thoughts echo in the cosmos do they survive me and all my troubles, if only as a whisper

can I resonate in another life can I mean a little more than I expect can I be a question can I be an answer can I be... not forgotten