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Best Poems Written by Annabelle Dillon

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Where I Come From

I’m from small town homes and rose bushes overgrown, with
Where my best friend lives down the block and I make late night trips to her house past the town curfew, because I am from just inside the city limits.
Where I can’t drive underage in a non-road-legal vehicle on the road but I do it anyways.

From hydrangeas to big dead oaks with darkened limbs and forgotten branches. Unattended to hidden ponds with sand dunes keeping close company. Winding trails through the woven pines and golf cart rides through the night.
From two tracking at 2am, to popped tires riding on rims all the way home.
Bruised up and down and scratches I don’t know how I got.

I’m from sunday night football with crockpot cheesy potatoes
to rolling blackouts and chasing charter vans down flat onto our bottoms.
Muddy heels to get to the dance and paying seven dollars to watch my hometown football team lose.

I’m from where smoking our meat and video games in the garage is a party but we are the only company we need.
From corny jokes inside and out and witty humor, none taken. From where insulting one another is nothing but love and curfews are often a thing of the past.

Descending from lovejoys I am often filled with both love and joy,
I’m from oddballs and country folk yet we have evolved.
I’m from soccer games even when it’s raining. From no quitting all the way to you tried your best.
From high- highs and even lower lows.

I’m from the land of schnitzel, pickled beer, and pizza. From ‘go play outside’ and ‘walk it off.’ Nuts and bolts for christmas snacks to ‘honor thy mother and father.’ Sunday school lullabies and don’t use his name in vain, following all the common Godly precautions.

I’m from waking up early just to see the sunrise even though the trees are a war barricade from the burning fire you long to see. I’m from the fog that made my acres of yard an abyss that I can’t see through, even though I know what’s there.
I’m from family trips and a loving home, missing it when I’m gone and hating it when I’m there. I’m from supportive love and ‘can’t isn’t a word’. I’m from you can do anything if you work hard enough, and whether you think you can, or think you can’t, you’re right.

Copyright © Annabelle Dillon | Year Posted 2019

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(TW Infertility) 

My body is built to bear children.

I must stop comparing my body to those 

of women who are simply built....

differently than I am.

My stretch marks are an atlas of the 

paths I've walked. From adolescence to 

womanhood, I have a story. My body 

tells, my story.

I'm coming to accept that I will simply 

never be that small, and it is not 

something to be shameful about. 

I'm coming to accept this with little 

anecdotes, such as, my body is built to 

bear children. 

But I still have days, where I feel like I am...

too much. 

On those days, I try to make myself smaller on my couch; 

but only end up making myself larger 

with each handful I shovel to the pit, 

in the bottom of my stomach. 

What can I use to console myself

when my disappointment in my looks is 

all consuming.

So much so that the doubtful light 

at the end of the tunnel is more tempting 

than the sun. 

And what happens...where does my 
anecdote go when, the children never come? 

When my gynecologist finds similes in words such as 'barren' or 'empty' 

My body-was, built to bear children.

Copyright © Annabelle Dillon | Year Posted 2021

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When I was thirteen years young, I filleted my upper right thigh.
47 times.
In one night.
In one hour.
I wrote suicide notes,
Every night. 
I folded them up and put them in a drawer where the hid.
Similar to the thoughts in the back cabinet of my mind. 
Dusty and untouched by the ears of any but my own, I rip them apart.

Showing my emotions was always difficult. 
But so was showing them. 
So I hid my scars, along with the rest of my body. I had become a being of pure collagen. 
I festered over myself to become whoever those who were around me had wanted me to be. 
I folded under such slight pressure, a gust of wind could have put me away for months at a time.

I was a Petri dish for one of God’s unexplained.
Marching into every day like a virus in a  new repertory system, “Hello, here I am!” And “No I don’t think meds will help...” 
So I had quit taking them. 
The anti depressants.
The sleeping medication.
The meds you take the morning after sleeping medication, to deactivate those sleeping pills, so that you’re at least awake to be numb.

I stopped taking them, because I felt sympathy for factory machines. 
They’re told how to run. 
When to be off, when to be on, and the second they are off when they should be on, something is presumed to be wrong.

I felt shame inject itself into my cardiovascular. I felt it coursing through my veins.
I saw it
in my hands
the night I introduced my flesh to an eyeliner sharpeners blade. 

What they don’t tell you when you start medication, is that your brain senses this new and regular source of this chemical, and stops producing it. 
So I, was a literal wreck. 

I cut everyone toxic out of my life very quickly.
I took my antidepressant.
I gave myself time to heal.
I figured out what kind of person I wanted to be.
And I brought her to life.

Copyright © Annabelle Dillon | Year Posted 2019

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Our Daily Bread

Racism. Trying to prove ones skin tone or ethnicity is superior to another’s. 

Why we let a such word control society is beyond the human brain. 
Why it is unfathomable to process we are all made of the same thing; but different because of how we come? Incomprehensible.

Why most are unable to understand that being baked in a different bakery, at a different temperature, slower or faster, rising more quickly than others or not; is a perfect example of how close minded we have become. Do your conditions not make you not bread?

We are all made of the same things, carbon mostly. Along with Oxygen, hydrogen, nitrogen, calcium, and phosphorus. 

Yet because the outer coating of someone’s body, that has nothing to do with what kind of person they are, they are targeted as a lesser class.

Elaborate why, when all the things, that all races have discovered,and accomplished are so completely amazing, we still discriminate? 

Did you know the three light-stop-light was invented by an African American? Or that Thomas Edison collaborated with an African American scientist who created the most vital part of the light bulb? 

Not only is the actual racism a problem, it’s the misleading term that gets most people.

You are not a racist if you dislike a person with the same skin color of your own; only if you dislike the whole population of people, because of their skin color. 

We could move so much further towards making the world a happier place. We could bring together whole communities and end all slurs in one fell swoop. We need this change, for future generations. If only we could only see past what is another persons pigmentation. 

We are a species of infinite curiosity, with the resources and assistance to satisfy it. We as a whole, every single color, race, ethnicity, religion, we have created so much beauty.

But we let skin color define us. 

Copyright © Annabelle Dillon | Year Posted 2019

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Snakes and Such

I dont think its easy to grasp the concept of depression. 
This is probably because it is not concrete, anchored, bound to one definition.
It pools around you ten feet tall before it enters your peripherals.
Completely unnoticed by its host for as long as it takes to fill a hamper, with the ocean.
Then depression sicks its sharks on you, showing only dorsal fins poking through the veil of 'normality'. Putting a gram on the other side of the scale, breaking balance, breaking you.
Slowly those sharks become serpants. Those serpants lick at your ankles, a facade of a friend. 
They pull your legs together, dissembling a foundation, as they make their way up your legs. Around your chest they begin to constrict, pushing your lungs closer together like a long distance friendship never severed. Taking away the ability to breathe as you forget that you want to, breathe.
They whisper alternative facts, promising a better day soon, that this will not be 'forever'. But they never prevail.
The ten foor tower of water surrounding you begins to grow dark as you realize, yes, you are indeed depressed... again.
Those antidepressants, they worked so well you felt so completely normal and laughed without reason. 
But you forgot.
You arent normal.
You forgot normal people dont ahve to take those little pharmecuticals to remain engulfed in serotonin. And on top of the reemerging depression, you forgot to take them.
So you sit on your bed with your knees drawn to your chest, hyperventilationg quietly as those familiar tears, stop by.
For three and a half hours.
You want to escape so so badly, but how can you escape your safe haven? When all you know to be comforting is, right next to you.
How can you, how can I be saved?
When will it be
O v e r?

Copyright © Annabelle Dillon | Year Posted 2019

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Why Im in Love With the Moon

I am in love.
I do not “do” love. I feel it. It pulses through me, hard, and blurs my vision. 

It gifts me with the graceless two left feet, and then, 

I find myself staring, and even though I have no remorse and do not regret you catching my gaze, I turn into a lobster. 
With deep rosy red painting my face, and my shell, it’s hiding all sorts of goods. Protecting them, my pincers are a constant threat, you keep distance between us because of it. Do you feel how heavy my presence is?

If I could go one day without going out of my way to watch you, I would give my left claw. That one does the most damage, or is that crabs? I wouldn’t know because only you have ever made me into a lobster. Though that thought does not matter because come the end I’m still at your side, regardless of the fear between us.

Without the glow you constantly give off I find myself in the dark, stumbling over those useless toes of mine. 
Without that light, I find myself without gravity as well, not floating, but not walking. Somewhere caught between sleep walking and day dreaming, catch my drift?

That darkness is still more comforting than your timed absence will ever be. And the time you are there, it’s trimmed with every occurrence.

You have this way of keeping me on a leash without even lifting a finger, the one I’m wrapped around. You know, don’t you?

I love the moon and the way it moves, how it keeps the sea at bay, in that same fashion it tames me. It splits the Sky with this soft blue shimmer that you can’t take your eyes off of, the one that causes you to stay up until the most ungodly hours soaking up its essence.

It romances the simplest movement, your hand reaching out to grace another, your own or that of another being. 

It compliments the way your hair frames your face. 
A reminder of a calm sunset with tanned skin, eyes that dance around in their sockets having a party, curiosity the host. 
A nose, resembles the pier that was walked all the way to your lips, waves lapping. Carefully embedded with tender love.

The way it doesn’t even need its own light, just like you, completely mesmerizing. It just sits perfectly and it has all the glory in the world for being placed correctly. If only I was a little closer, I could love like there was no tomorrow. 

The moon, the way it illuminates the earth just so perfectly, makes it seem just that way.
Just that, perfect.

Copyright © Annabelle Dillon | Year Posted 2019

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I have an issue.
I have an issue with picking up my phone and only seeing the end of several animal species.
I have an issue with the persistent sound of trees being sawed in two.
I have a small, little, itty-bitty, molecular issue, with men creating songs with melodies of pretenses; that dance to the beat of their wives heads hitting the wall. 
I have an issue with the impotency of steady intimacy that deserving women never see the light of, and the dark images that slide in and out of focus with each encounter. 
I have an issue with children’s stomachs screaming at them to eat scraps off the side of a road that carries the same diseases as barn animals and sewer rats.
I have an issue with all of this being brushed off shoulders, the turn of yet another cheek.
I have an issue with who we became.
I have an issue with who we are.

Copyright © Annabelle Dillon | Year Posted 2021

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I feel trapped. Inside my own body.
There’s so much I want to change about myself and who I am, but I can’t. 
I feel the tiny ribbons of who I am fighting against each other inside me. 
Under my left shoulder I feel the red ribbon pulling me to give who I love everything and anything I have to offer. 
Through my arms I feel my blue ribbons telling me that what I’m giving is mine, things that they worked to earn me. They tell me no.
In my thighs I feel the purple ribbons complain of such desire for things that the orange ribbon in my head knows is not right. They tear each other apart, confetti.
Wrapped around my bones I feel a white ribbon straighten my spine and push me to do better, to carry more. The thing is, I don’t know if the white ribbon is telling me to carry more for myself, or others.
Wrapped around my throat, there is a green ribbon. This one chokes back words that I want to say most, that will do the worst things. Green ribbon let’s out word vomit when it isn’t paying attention and I make mistakes. Green ribbon restricts me and frees me all at once, my words die in my esophagus. 
In control of my knees, claves, and feet is yellow ribbon. Yellow ribbon straightens my walking patterns in variation to how much alcohol has been consumed. But sometimes it falters and I find myself stumbling completely sober and standing straight up when I should be doubled over. These ribbons wrap around each other and meet in knots. They pull on each other until one is in control of the wrong thing and I’m falling.
I’m falling so fast that the air moving past my face is keeping me from breathing and-
I am confetti.

Copyright © Annabelle Dillon | Year Posted 2019

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I pour as easily as a second glass of wine, I like to think I'm just as bittersweet too. 
I leave notes of passion that often evolve into a song of "its not you, it's me." 
I hurl myself into the worst "what if's", tormenting myself for absolutely no reason whatsoever.
I project a sense of love that you will want to bask in, forever. I will let you.
I strive to make you smile, and often let your smile become more important than my own.
I have trouble with letting people and feelings in too quickly and-
I love you.
I wish for nothing more, than the same wild, crazy, thing in return.      

Copyright © Annabelle Dillon | Year Posted 2021

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Tonight, I will undress.
I will strip down the walls I built so high for so long. 
Tearing down brick, after brick; leaving them to the mercy of my bathroom floor.
I will remove every undergarment that hides who I really am.
I will do this because I need to.  
I will undress myself, to prove that I indeed do not need a man to do it.  
I’ll turn off the lights and sit in the dark.
I will think.
I will speak my mind, even if no one is going to listen, and not just to hear the sound of my own voice.
I will show you my morals. From the roots that sit in the dark, wet and in abundance; to the flower that blooms from the tippy top of the stem. Where believe it or not, it is the most lonely. 

I will NOT, force you to believe them.
I will not engrave my flowers into the back side of your eyelids and leave gardens that you do not understand.

I will tell you, that you are beautiful. 
And if you hear those words dance off my tongue, glide through the air to greet your eardrums, do not tell me otherwise. 

If it goes in one of your ears and out the other, filtered away to nothing by social standards, so be it. That doesn’t make it any less true.

But my voice doesn’t drown yours. 
Do not take my opinion so deep into your heart that you can’t tell it apart from your own.
I will not drag you into the depths of my mind, that no one has ever seen, nor may ever want to see.
I will be your backbone, as long as mine doesn’t end impaled.

I will throw caution to the wind, and run barefoot through meadows of those thoughts I blossomed. Unprotected.

Please do not pluck my flowers, 
for then they die.

I know my place, I will stumble upon my purpose.
I will still find myself pressing the placebo button, knowing. 
But I will wait for change, because I can.
Because that is who I am.

Copyright © Annabelle Dillon | Year Posted 2021