Jul 14
poem 2 comments challenge: Life
Hannah Campbell's picture

Who Am I?

I am an empath,
and too often I feel,
I feel,
the burdens of the world,
and of others,
too heavy,
and crushing
my heart. 

I am a creator, 
and within my heart
stories are swirling, 
whether from past experiences
filled with regret,
from the wonderings of the world and how it works,
of philosophy and of a sensitivity to humanity,
and to all livngkind;
I want to let them out,
in music,

in words,
in art, 
to let them be free, 
and explore the world. 

I am a sinner,
and I am a victim,
and I am human. 
I have drunken the sweetness
of the likeness that I should not have touched,
that my heart shrivels from, 
but my body craves;
I have suffered from tragedies,
Apr 24
Hannah Campbell's picture


Just a precursor, I understand how bad this is. This wasn't a formal story; it was literally just a writing exercise with me listening to music and trying to write something. And it's a first draft, there was absolutely no planning of the characters, setting, anything like that. So maybe if you like it, you can build on it, or anything like that. Also, know the story is ended up becoming really morbid, so do not read this if you are uncomfortable with hearing about violence or death.

She clung onto her mother, blue eyes wide and filled with tears. "What's happening?" she cried aloud, tugging on tight to her shaking mother's skirt.
     Her mother looked down at her daughter, and tried to give a trembling smiling to console her. "Come here, my sweet daughter." She carressed the soft cheeks of her daughter, and scooped her into her arms. "Everything will be alright, it's okay," she murmured.
Jan 12
Hannah Campbell's picture


Nothing flows from my mind,

no ink on the paper, 

no words on the screen. 

Tip-tap, tip-tap, tip-tap.

I have nothing to say.



B-o-r-e-d .

Still empty. 

Writing just to write.

It's become a chore.

Something I once used to love,


I'm now forcing my fingers to hit the keyboards

but instead of their usual frenzied panic:

just blankness.

I feel nothing, but think everything.

Yet I cannot transfer it to paper. 

Jan 01
Hannah Campbell's picture


Dec 18
Hannah Campbell's picture

The Coldest I have ever felt.

The coldest I have ever felt. 

I have never liked the feeling of cold but rather curl my feet up and down vigorously in an effort to return some blood circulation to them. I zip up my coat all the way and stick my nose in the inside and breathe out hot air. I scrunch my wet hazel eyes up so much that their hoods cover them up revealing only the part of my eye closest to the nose bridge. 

But as I stood out in the cold last night I enjoyed the feeling of the freezing. I turned my face to a blast of wind and inhaled in my nostrils the most glacial subzero scent and felt it swirling around in the caverns of my lungs. I slowly unbottoned my beige cardigan and held it above my head allowing it bellow in the breath of winter. I peeled my eyes open and permitted the gellid wind to come in and take residence in my skull. 
Dec 14
Hannah Campbell's picture

The Syrian Holocaust

The following is an excerpt from The Daily Beast:

More than 100 unaccompanied children were reported to be trapped in a building under heavy bombardment in eastern Aleppo, according to UNICEF, the U.N. agency responsible for child welfare said, quoting an unnamed doctor in the city, Reuters reported.  

. . . . "Civilians were apparently crammed into whatever buildings still remain in the tiny quarters yet to be recaptured by the Assadists, but many were left outside in the streets, owing to lack of space. It is here, in broad daylight, Othman said, that men, women and children were being cooked alive by barrel bombs dropped right where they stood.

And those who survive the air raids could not be helped. "Women and children — their screams can be heard underneath the rubble. Unfortunately, there is nothing we can do to get them out. Everyone is panicking. There is great fear. Everyone can only think of himself, not about others."

Dec 14
Hannah Campbell's picture

Goodbye Aleppo [What Makes Me Angry - Syria/Politicians - Pt. 2]

Goodbye Aleppo,
I say my goodbyes
and I give your children my prayers.

I shall always remember your children
as I have, a witness, watched them die
and watched the hearts of their caretakers turn black and wilt. 

Goodbye Aleppo,
All your childrens' faces have been burnt crisp by a missile
and turned yellow and starch with their dark black eyes stuck open
and a permanent look of horror left on their faces.

I have watched since the start of this holocaust,
but nothing did I do,
and now it's your last hour and your last day left on Earth. 

Goodbye Aleppo,
Forever in my prayers,
we always say "never again"
but why does it happen once more?

I do not know why human darkness is here,
its darkness both black as the depressed
but red as the blood of the innocent, forever unceasing.
Dec 09
Hannah Campbell's picture

The Adults

I don't know. 
Maybe it's just me.
But does anyone just watch the adults?
Begin to know them intimitely? 
I like to see the stories behind their faces. 
Like how one's mouth carries the resemblance to a toad
And one has deep, saddened eyes with a Roman nose?
One has a sprightly, bright eyes and twitchy, perky mouth?
Or the other has a stern commanding gaze with a mocking smirk?
They don't notice it.
But I do.
I like to read. 

Nov 23
Hannah Campbell's picture

Poppy Song

i. Spin me around;
let go of me and I shall come to in a bed of red flowers.

ii. Ping-pong, the poppies knock their heads together
as the wind, she dances through
her luscious black hair curling around their stems
tickling softly with intention, filling the night with bubbling giggles

iii. but her lily white fingers make them jealous,
and her blood red dress starts their crying shrieks

iv. Oh no, one tiny, freezing seed fell into my mouth
It's a hard cold lump blocking the lung passages

v. Is that hollow crying pain from my tears or the red petals? 
I don't know any longer--
the salty eye water blends with the sky colors
and the stars dance but they shouldn't because they're stars
only you should be dancing, and that's because you're you

vi . She picks me up on her silver, aged wild goose,