Dear Cahlebe Haddad

Dear Cahlebe Haddad, 

It's funny to me that I winded up getting you for the white elephant, considering we're already friends, it's like Christmas. So I'm giving you a gift, I'm writing you a letter. I have not finished writing it, but when I do finish I will deliver it to you. 

The just of the letter is basically: I totally knew it was you the moment I pulled up your blog (that's not a bad thing, I just know you personally and had the sneaking suspicion it was your writing). 

I must applaud you on your writing skills, your stories were intriguing and I thoroughly enjoyed them. Keep writing for you and not others. 

Sincerely, 

Violet Luster 

Shakespearean Blackout Poetry

Blackout poetry created from my copy of Romeo and Juliet from 6th grade: 

If I were a flower, I would be a violet

"I am the violet.

I AM THE VIOLET 

I am the violet. I wear my heart on my sleeve, 

Heart shaped scalloped leaves." 

When Paris was first mentioned I thought I'd love to go to Paris, but I'm stuck in the garden. 

A Utah garden,

Surrounded by bees,

And other "superior" flowers. 

I bloomed on my blog and in my journal,

My very own garden.

I bloomed: 

For all the other slowly seemingly less superior flowers,

For the bees, 

For the florists, 

For MYSELF.

A2 Creative Writing has got me thinking about how residing in the garden isn't too bad, 

After all Paris has gardens too.  

Thinking about how I could set my roots down in Cimetière du père Lachaise

Or how I would flourish in the summer sun at Parc des Buttes Chaumont

Or how Jardin du Luxwmbourg, "Among many parks and gardens of Paris, is certainly one of the favorite green places of the Parisians, students, and tourists." 

At least that's what the travel site told me....

I'd like to pretend I'm a Parisian, but I'm not sure if I've even been to Paris yet 

And if I ever get to Paris I wonder if the people I assume tourists assume that of me. 

Please hear my plea, I am trying to be a Parisian and I will get there one day, 

But for now I am a frail flower, I am the violet, I am violet luster. 

"While the bees may ignore me, 

The florists will always appreciate my frailty."

(Be a florist, not a tourist. Truly fall in love with Paris)

Through the past months I've learned, 

You aren't bees,

You aren't tourists, 

You are all the florists and fantastic flowers, 

Learning what it means to be a Parisian. 

I am violet luster. I am Hannah Staker. 

Welcome to my garden. 

"Alive"

I am ill informed on what it means to be "alive" 

I'm 17, the eldest child out of four, a senior in high school with a resume that only contains expierence in regards to heartbreak and share a car with my dad. 

I'm an athlete and a writer, sometimes an artist. I am an introvert, but sometimes I wonder what it's like to be popular. I change my crush every week, but at the end of the day I love the same boy.

I refer to myself as a narcissist, but I'm just learning to love myself. I'm late with my blog posts and I hate shaving my legs. I'm passive and I'm learning to be more aggressive, but I'm rarely passive aggressive. 

I won't take the time to straighten my hair, but I'll be late to school just to curl my hair and point my eyeliner. I took 4 years of Spanish but I say nothing more than "Bien" when asked "¿Como Estas?" and I really miss my Spanish class. 

I don't do crazy things, but I pretend I do. I only stay out 10 minutes past curfew and I feel like 1 am is a more suitable curfew. I go way over my data usuage because I like to listen to music while I drive and won't buy spotify premium.

And 

There's so much more to me, but I am Violet luster and I do not know what it means to be "alive"

Blue Ticket: Empty Seat

In the honor of 

Thanksgiving,

the second worst holiday, 

let's talk about growing up. 

I hate Thanksgiving almost an much as I hate Christmas. 

(but that's a story I'll tell when it's snowing) 

The only decent holidays are Halloween and The 4th of July and any holiday honoring people who deserve praise. 

Any previously 'great' holidays have lost their true meanings so I'll stick to the holidays we don't miss more than one day of school for.

I apologize for the pessimistic attitude, but Thanksgiving is the worst. 

The holiday dedicated to eating when that's not even what it's suppose to be about. 

Not to mention it's followed by the travesty that Black Friday is. 

Don't get me wrong, I love eating,

BUT 

It's the same old food with the same old relatives every year and I'm getting really sick of being asked what I'm doing with my life and where I'm going to college and how's swimming going and if they can see some of my writing? 

WHAT THE HELL AM I THANKFUL FOR?

Friends, Family, A roof over my head...the basics

I mean....I really do care....I really am grateful, thankful for all that I have. 

I just wish my family, mainly my mother weren't so keen on metaphorically murdering me. 

WRITE AN OBITUARY FOR MY 

-Heart 

-Childlike Nature

-Patience 

-Progression of mother-daughter relationship 

My mother wrote the obituaries, but I have to write eulogies for all that I know. 

R.I.P

Bless the deseased.

HEART: 17 years. You will be missed, it was good while it lasted, I can still feel the echo of your influence. 

CHILDLIKE NATURE: It's unfortunate you've passed, I don't think you're really gone. Don't tell my mother, but I think you escaped her grasp and are playing hide n' go seek. On my 18th I'll come looking for you. 

PATIENCE: I think I took you for granted. I don't know what's been holding me back since you died and will I met someone like you? 

MOTHER-DAUGHTER RELATIONSHIP: Please tell me you're not actually dead, please tell me you ran away with childlike nature because I don't want to live my life without you. I mean, you've only been around for 3 months, you've gone too soon. 

My mothers explaination for the slaughter of my favorite aspects of my personality is "You are 17 and being really immature" 

She's a murderer and I'm the one who's being put on trial. 

Maybe my "immaturity" IS my personality and she tells me I'm not being myself, but frankly if you're going to try to live through me at least get to know me first. 

My mother says I need to grow up and act my age yet at Thanksgiving dinner there isn't even a EMPTY SEAT for me at the the "adults table" 

So

WHAT THE HELL AM I THANKFUL FOR?

I am thankful that there is an EMPTY SEAT for me at the "kiddie table".

Music

Tomatoes // Shane Koyczan and the Short Story Long 

music can be poetry and poetry can be music. 

I Am Afraid Of Hookups

I like to pretend that I know what you want 

because it makes me feel better

so when "the girls" ask about you, I say "I want to be with him and I know he wants to be with me, but he can't, his friends won't let him" 

I am a book, I started as storybook and I'll grow into literature. 

I am the book and you stole me from the library, you can't let anyone know you have it but you don't want to give it back.

You stole me because the librarians told you "it was a bad idea to check out a book like that" 

You just couldn't resist the plot .......

But I'm disappointed in my own plot twists, they destroyed you. I hate the guy I left you for.

But I bet your glad that I can finally say it out loud.

I left on you and

I hate myself for it

It was my fault 

I was a the author of an unpopular self published paperback book

And when you were on vacation 

I let him peruse my skin like a magazine 

He didn't even read the fine print 

He barely read the front cover 

He just skimmed my pages and tore my edges 

Because I didn't have enough of a spine to say I will not be his magazine, there is so much more to me

You treated me like a number one best seller book of the year 

you read my chapters like you needed to write a research paper 

You highlighted you're favorite parts and underlined the important details.

Your guilty pleasure

Although there were better and longer books, but you secretly kept rereading me, threatening to eventually return me. 

You're hiding me, 

You're hiding me bc you're ashamed of me.

                      understandable. 

I'm just a jumble of recycled paper covered in jotted down one-liners. 

You weren't treating me like the poetry I was made up of 

(and maybe that's karma) 

BUT I am SO sick of the mantra "actions speak louder than words"

BECAUSE IF YOU WERE ABLE TO LET YOUR WORDS SPEAK LOUDER THAN YOUR ACTIONS FOR ONCE

AND TOLD ME YOU DIDNT WANT TO RETURN ME WE WOULDN'T BE IN THIS MESS 

It takes two to tango so don't blame it all on me, 

Partner, 

Co-author.

I now know I am not JUST a book, I am not an object you can just keep on a shelf or under your bed for later. (Yeah, it took me some time to realize my worth, but time heals all wounds and trees were cut down to make me so I guess I'm pretty damn special)

You didn't buy me, you stole me from the library and others want the chance read me, but you refuse to return me. You don't want me, but you don't want anyone else to have me, but you don't really have me.

I can see you want what you can't have so you're lying when you tell me you want my friendship. Because no one steals a book they only "like" and BABY PLEASE TELL ME WHATS PLATONIC ABOUT THE WAY YOUR HANDS GRIP MY HIPS AND WHILE YOU'RE GOING IN FOR A KISS.

Please just tell me what this is because I don't you don't believe in friends with benefits. If you're going to leave, stay gone and forget my title.

When you're kissing me you tell I'm perfect 

BUT 

If I'm so perfect why did you leave me 

 (I mean I know why you left me but) 

Don't tell me something that isn't true just to set the mood,

Calling me to get some booty

Don't get me wrong I'm just a little bit moody 

There's nothing wrong with a little bit of booty (when you're in the moody).

It just hurts because I know it'll never be the same and you only think I'm perfect in regards to my body frame. After that last night we spent together I didn't want to wash my hair or change my shirt because it smelt like YOU. I haven't changed my sheets because they smell like US and when I lay in bed I can feel YOU.

You're the only boy I know who's ok with just cuddling if we're in a bedroom and I should admit I appreciate that. 

I am so grateful that the one last hickey you gave me faded BECAUSE I DONT WANT TO THINK ABOUT THE WAY THE GROOVES OF YOUR LIPS FEEL ON MY SKIN.

I'd rather ignore the places where you used to kiss me.

(my neck, my forehead, my shoulder, and my lips)

I don't want to think about how the last time we made out you kissed me on the forehead when you were "done" 

And checked your feed and wrote a new tweet and ignored me 

I DONT WANT TO THINK ABOUT HOW YOU'RE NOT THINKING ABOUT ME

Well now I'M DONE

I'm done being your secret, so you don't "kick up dust" 

I'm sick of picking up dust on your shelf 

 I am sick of being your second option, I'm sick of being you're hookup. 

Just because you care about me doesn't mean I'm not just a hookup.

I just want to feel ok again. 

So leave me be and stop rereading my poetry. I wrote it all for you, but soon you'll be someone else's poetry and I wasted my time missing you.

And that's why I'm afraid of hookups

A guide For Girls On How To Get Over A Heartbreak

1. Allow yourself to pout for a couple of days, it's ok.

2. Every night is girls night.

-your sleepovers should be like the 13 going on 30 sleepover scene 

(the greatest healing song is Love Is A Battlefield, for future reference)

3. Make a sad playlist, a love playlist, and a sad love playlist.

4. Listen to the love playlist.

5. Listen to the sad playlist.

6. Listen to the love playlist.

7. Listen to the sad playlist. 

8. Any clothes of his DO NOT give back.

-cut his shirts into crop tops and wear them frequently 

-don't wear his sweatshirt unless you are sulking because it will smell like him

9. Fall in love with the way another boy smells.

10. Play How To Be A Heartbreaker by Marina And The Diamonds on repeat and convince yourself that you don't care.

11. Once your denial phase has passed listen to the sad love playlist and delete the song How To Be A Heartbreaker.

12. Forget the way his voice sounds.

13. Mourn the fact that you will never get to see his dog again.

14. Reminisce on the talks you used to have with his mother.

15. Resist the temptation to call him up.

16. Delete all the photos you have together from your camera roll.

(and this is CRUCIAL looking at the photos will hurt, BAD)

17. Internet stalk him during the 'grieving period'.

18. Stop checking his Twitter favorites, you'll see something you don't want to see.

19. Do NOT subtweet him so when he subtweets you, they will look foolish.

20. Un-add him on snapchat.

21. Unfollow him on Instagram.

22. Exercise: 

-from the wise words of many tumblr accounts "do some squats and make them wish they had dat ass" 

23. Look 'fire af' at school.

24. Improve yourself.

25. Repeat steps 22-24, but this time do it for you and not him.

26. Forget the color of their eyes. 

27. Write the last poem you'll ever write about them. 

Love Is Stereotypical I Guess

Why is the heart associated with the things we love, and why is our mind always 'the bad guy'?

Apricot Trees

Best And Last Lines Of All My Love Poems

Love is just a myth, and dreams are only dreams, but I believe in Cupid and my fears are tangled up in the dream catcher above my bed.

Your fatal flaw was always me.

(I don't live in a hotel) you're not a bellhop and you don't need my baggage to carry.

I'm failing chemistry, but 

I'm not failing your chemistry.

I'M IN SPANISH CLASS 

THINKING ABOUT HOW I CAN

LOVE YOU IN TWO DIFFERENT LANGUAGES.

when i kiss him i can feel the color spectrum.

when i kiss him i can feel the hum of a symphony.

I have yet to write a proper and perfect paragraph about love because love is neither proper nor perfect.

....when you find your direction you'll find your other half and learn that two halves make a whole to fill the whole in your heart and according to anatomy the heart is suppose to have holes or rather valves so meeting .5 will cause respiratory problems and cardiac irregularities 

our bodies intertwine like headphones in a pocket.

How could i forget that the automatic sprinklers were set for 3:30 every Tuesday.

BECAUSE MY HEART WAS 

A MICROPHONE, BUT HE UNPLUGGED

THE SPEAKER. 

i guess he just liked me too much 

i know your game,

we are one in the same, 

each move you make is purposeful.

love cannot exist if we do not trust each other.

I LOVE YOU.

I am a poet

Poetry is soul

Incomparable writing 

To express feelings

Robots don't have emotions

I AM NOT A ROBOT BECAUSE ROBOTS DON'T HAVE EMOTIONS

ANGER

• scream
• cry 
• lash out and break things  
• say things I don't mean 
• run 6 miles 
• write last lines that hit hard 
• don't apologize when I should 
• subtweet 
• forget to eat 

SADNESS

• scream 
•  cry 
•  wear waterproof mascara 
• don't go to school 
• distance myself 
• pout 
• take long baths 
• apologize too much
•  listen to only instrumental music 

LOVE

• scream 
• cry
• write strictly love poems
• romantically sigh
• heart eyes emoji 
• constantly talk about 'him'
• #bodyposi 
• crave kisses and cuddles 

FEAR

• scream 
•  cry
• panic 
•  talk to myself 
• buy pepper spray and a stun gun
•  shake and tremble

HAPPINESS

• scream
• cry
• smile till my face hurts
• 'happy dance'
• press flowers 
• do things because I want to not because I have to 

 BUT MAYBE I AM A ROBOT BECAUSE, IF CONFRONTED I'D DENY FEELING ANYTHING

The Violet

Life is like a garden I am the frail and dainty flower And I am always disregarded by the hive of worker bees and their queen At least from my viewpoint on the ground, in the dirt Life is like a garden I am always looked down upon Tucked behind tall grass I am seen but overlooked 
I am of sweet smell, but seem to never compare to the aroma of a deep deep crimson rose 
I am bright, but seem to never compare to the brilliant shades of yellow in a sunflower
I bloom all year long, but seem to never compare to the graceful seasonal blooming of a tulip
I am poised, but seem to never compare to the sophistication of an iris 
I am unique, but seem to never compare to the intricacy of an orchid 
I am the Violet I AM THE VIOLET I am the violet I wear my heart on my sleeve, heart-shaped, scalloped leaves While the bees may ignore me The florists will always always appreciate my frailty

I wish things were different

This one is for the ladies

Call me a hypocrite, a fake, a two-faced wannabe,
a cheat, a masquerader, a lip server,
a wolf is sheep's clothing

But there is corruption within the 'girl world'
a decline in the concept that we are made of sugar, spice, and everything nice
the powerpuff girls are now powderpuff girls,
who only stick to cliques and go with the status quo.

I'm sick of this bullsh*t girls pull about 'kindness'
NEWS FLASH HONEY
you've got a twisted view on kindness

This is the nightly news,
 Tonight's topic: WHY ARE GIRLS SO MEAN TO EACH OTHER?
but first let's go to weather with bob.

Forecast is going to be partly judgmental 
with an 80% chance of humiliation 
A huge wave of rumors is predicted, 
with harsh accusations coming from the south,
which will lead to a decrease in self esteem 
and happiness. 
Now back to you Debra.

In local new, teenage girl tweets
"being nice is cool" 
Is being hypocritical the new fad?
stay tuned to find out...

I am skeptical of girls and their offer of 'kindness'
their peace treaty,
their surrender of petty behavior
because it is civil war out there
anarchy fueled by insecurities
WORDS ARE OUR WEAPONS
girls are dropping like flies

We are tearing each other down when we should be building each other up
We are more alike than we think...

What ever happened to girl power?
WE SHOULD BE STICKING TOGETHER 

Maybe I am a hypocrite, a fake, a two-faced wannabe,
 a cheat, a masquerader, a lip server,
a wolf is sheep's clothing
but I embrace honesty and strive to break the cycle of hatred.
I wish things were different 
I want things to be different 
Things will be different.

Exerpts from the poems I never finished

My heart acts like an organ less and less each day, it's a compass and I'm lost 

electric sparks like a radio dropped

in a rusted claw footed tub

I AM ONLY A FIRST DRAFT

Love is when you don't want to sleep in your own bed because they aren't there with you and no pillow will ever be a substitute 

the army of therapists and pharmacists deemed me unstable and depressed , unable to fight and unfit for ...

body heat radiates like a nuclear plant

they say "you're real and people are scared of that"

his touch shakes my ribs   DON'T TELL ME SOMETHING THAT ISN'T TRUE                                                                      JUST TO SET THE MOOD

I AM A VIXEN, A FOX AND I GET WHAT I WANT

I can feel the color spectrum when he looks at me

sometimes the best poetry 

can come from hurting 

feelings are not something you can copy and paste

and love is not something you can shrink to fit

cellophane heart, stain glass eyes, gramophone ears 

because he couldn't tell the difference between my body and his 

just because i am a size zero doesn't mean you have to treat me like one

i miss the grooves of your lips 

supply and demand, 

'factories' manufacture fake friends

NEW SHIPMENTS DAILY

My Life Is A Box Of Crayons

At a very young age the odd names of each crayon taught me to be descriptive.       

Fresh cut grass is shamrock 

The ocean is indigo and cobalt blue 

Sunsets are wild watermelon and atomic tangerine 

Sadness is periwinkle Pain is absolute zero 

Anger is brick red  Frustration is mahogany 

Love was rose quartz, 

Love is now dull rose dust 

My tears are periwinkle 

My hands are brick red  

I don't blame him, I just miss him, I miss feeling every shade of pink 

I miss his magic mint and blizzard blue eyes 

His cinnamon satin lips 

I miss the vivid violet memories and the hum of his wintergreen dream suburban 

I bloomed to carnation pink and he told me I was homemade peach ice cream 

He no longer describes me but at least I know, 

That his favorite color is forest green and mine is purple mountains' majesty and together we made the perfect scenery. 

The boy who never wore hats loved me

 (Sorry the title has no relevancy to the poem besides the fact that it is a true statement)

HOW MUCH DOES HE LOVE ME?         

                           He always tells me He never tells me 

But without fail he says "I love you" 

With the most uniform pattern, 

Morning and night 

While we kiss and after we fight 

When I'm sad and when I'm silent 

I adore those words yet I love you is losing it's luster    

Consistent and persistent to let me know I'm loved 

Too boost my self esteem and reassure me 

He means well, 

But just an "I love you" is pleasing, but it's anything but reassuring 

My question is: To what degree does his "I love you" mean

Sure, he writes poetry about me, but I always have to read it through the barrier of an electronic screen or hear it when he's not looking at me

I guess eye contact is nerve racking when you can't just say you love me 

Does his sensory system erupt like a volcano 

Or has his miles love for me been extinguished ? 

Because sometimes it feels as though I can't make that pitter patter go any faster unless I'm on top of him, his personal Aphrodite

When I'm distracted and not sexually active he sheds his goosebumps 

And forgets to tell me I'm beautiful, no longer comparing me to a goddess of love 

And all we do is watch Tv, then of course he says he loves me 

I am now murky lukewarm bath water, deep purple shin bruises

I am now the color of the moon  

I am now icy December roads 

I am now freezer burnt strawberry ice cream 

So I know that I am heart sick 

There are many manifesting symptoms 

I swallowed too many butterflies and lost my appetite for anything else 

I cough up thoughts of him, just a minor head cold

I can't stop thinking about him, he is plastered to the inside of my skull and pulsing through my veins

His sweet arctic breath on my neck is giving me chills, it's got me trembling in a cold sweat 

His breath may be frigid, but 

He, he was is my fever 

The heat that brings out the best in me, 

But why do I fear the  day he decides to be the doctor and no longer chooses to love me 

Only wanting doctor patient confidentiality 

A friend once asked me "how long do you think you'll be together ?"

With hesitation I replied "He said  "I don't know""

My question still continues to be: To what degree does his I love you mean?



(And if you, "HIM" are reading this, I wrote this when I was angry. Don't take it too personally, I still love you)

                          

        

Hats yo

"You're in high school, nobody cares about what you have to say"

...Until you give yourself credibility.

I am here to speak my mind, I am here to give myself credibility. 

"You're in high school, nobody cares about what you have to say"