Abby Hill Writings

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  • “Our Own”

    Every love poem is the same:

    repetitive,

    insensitive,

    lacking anything appetitive.

    “Your eyes are blue,

    I love you”

    But how could someone write something so plain?

    For there is no one like my McLean.

    Our love is nothing ordinary,

    a blessing in the midst of February.

    Words will never encapsulate my feelings for you,

    my devotion will forever accrue. 

    You are an eternal gift.

    I could never ask for anything better, for there is none.

    Regardless of our trying times, we will never be “done”.

    I love you Joey,

    forever and always.

    Meow.

  • “A Diffident Youth”

    Beauty has corrupted my kindness.

    Mirrors make militance.

    Cosmetics cause crisis.

    Insecurity is inevitable.

    I carry my frustration onto my surroundings.

    I loathe mirrors.

    I execrate clothes.

    Though I can’t fault them for my insecurity,

    blame is always easier upon the inconsequential.

    Anger doesn’t solve the resurging matter,

    but it’s easier than addressing my fears of getting fatter.

  • “Live”

    To numb the unbearability of our sorrows,

    opposed to undergoing them,

    is truly a remarkable regret.

    It’s not easy to withstand conflict.

    It will never be easy to withstand conflict.

    But to feel nothing rather than anything?

    Wasteful.

    Feeling something,

    feeling anything at all,

    is the epitome of the soul.

    Suffering is undesirable,

    but at least we have:

    the power,

    the courage,

    the ability,

    to experience.

  • “Ghost”

    As the rain droplets graze the empty window sill,

    I sit and ponder

    silly dreams of sonder.

    As I face the barren passersby,

    I question their purpose

    or lack of purpose.

    Everyone seems so insignificant. 

    A desolate perspective it seems,

    but alas no counter to differentiate their screams.

    These people will all lead to live various lives,

    yet no one will save them from the knives.

    Oblivious to each elaborate journey,

    regardless, death will spare no mercy.

    I dream of an insubstantial life such as theirs. 

    For it to seem as such, 

    no one cares.

  • “The Creator”

    Is human life meaningless?

    We spend lifetimes attempting to figure out whom is leading us. 

    We are scrambles of atoms,

    particles of an illusion,

    creatures yearning for an unclear solution.

    Our existence is only a simple hypothesis. 

    Our purpose is a made up confidence.

    We are simply here to multiply;

    Yet, we can’t help but glorify.

    Our truth is blatant,

    But we hesitate to claim it.

    We keep reaching for more.

    It’s never enough.

    It’s never enough.

    It’s never enough.

    We work.

    We work.

    And we work.

    But as we fail to climb to the top,

    Who will be the one to notice the pawn drop?

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