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There is a house on my street that the kids talk about
The shingles falling off, the garden dead from drought.

Rumors spread like fires, things like the backyard is full of tires
but everyone believes, in two scary stories.

In the back of the house there lies a bright red door,
There is no ceiling and there is no floor.

On the bright red door, there is nothing more
they say "She lies there, behind the bright red door, the place of pure nothingness, with no ceiling and no floor."

No one knows who "She" is, no one thinks to ask,
they tell the first story and proceed to the next task.

The second story I know, I think I'll tell it well,
"In the bright red door, in the back of the house, is the gateway to hell.
The girl that lives in it, whomever "She" may be, Is certainly the devil, it's plain to see."

So in the house down the street, behind the bright red door, is where people go when life becomes a bore.
The end or beginning who is to say?

Maybe it is just a story anyway.
I sit in the waiting room, tap tap tapping away with my foot, my brain simply incapable of slowing down. I have been in here for days, weeks, hours really, my body sinking deeper into this uncomfortable chair. I bite at my thumbnail, chewing it raw until it breaks skin. The room without windows and only two doors, one to go away and never be helped, and one for the doctor, who doesn't exactly help anyway. I sit there tap tap tapping away with my foot, waiting, waiting, waiting…

“Next!” calls out the only staff I have seen since arriving, she scratches notes into a paper, the ink seems to bleed like a ****. I stand and walk up, I am the only patient left, perhaps it is my turn? She looks up apologetically and begins the torrent of questions.
“Have you filed your paperwork weeks in advance?”

Yes.

“Have you made an appointment, and traveled the four hours out of state to see the one specialist close enough to drive?”

Yes.

“Have you filed with insurance that hardly covers anything you really need?”

Yes, can I go in now?

“Not just yet dearie, wait a little while!”

I sit back in the chair and wait, wait, wait, my foot tap tap tapping away.

Hours, seconds, minutes, the room fading away.

“The Doctor will see you now.” the nurse says, with a smile. I walk right past, into the second door, though my heart is screaming for me to run out the first.

Sitting at his desk, the Doctor barely glances at me as he waves to the chair.

“What seems to be the problem?”

I try to remember, to muster up the words, to pick and choose the worst of the problem. I want to mention how my brain is too fast, never ceasing to sleep or eat or stop at all, I must mention how my foot never seems to stop tap tap tapping away when I sit with nothing to do, I should tell him about the hours becoming days weeks months in the blink of an eye and then they are gone, I will explain to him how the way I talk doesn't seem to make sense to people, I want to show him my fingers, all snarled and chewed from my biting and worrying.

Well Doctor, it started like this;

I was normal once, like you and the others, I used to be able to sit for hours without tap tap tapping away and chewing my fingers, and losing all time in the blink of an eye. I used to be perfectly normal and everything was ok.
Then for some odd reason, I started to do all these silly things, affecting my life and ruining myself. Doctor, I used to be perfectly normal.
I remember once, i was ok, able to sit and not fret or fray, Doctor I promise I don’t mean to rhyme, it’s simply something that happens sometimes.

The Doctor sighs “It's plain to see, I know what's wrong with your memory. You have the mind of a poet, a heart filled with pain, your veins redirected it, it's now in your brain. There isn’t a cure, you’re stuck for a while” The doctor gave me a notebook, a pen, and a smile. “Write down your thoughts, your words everyday, you may not remember but I think that's ok. Take these home, and you will find, it might just help with your poet's mind.”

I took the notebook, the pen, and tried to smile, I walked out the first door and stood for a while. I got in my car as the rain started pouring, I took out my supplies and started my story:

“I sit in the waiting room, tap tap tapping away with my foot, my brain simply incapable of slowing down.”
Anxiety
once upon a time,
a man called daniel
rented a room in a street
near a town,
where my feet struck pavement
a lot of my life
daniel and me,
we met in a pub,
on a warm
july night
he took me home
filled me with charm
kissed me under a bridge
daniel was older than me
by 22 years
knew where his hands wandered
knew i was 14 and an addict
oh his mouth said all kinds of filthy things
while he held me down
and i went back
and i want his mouth off my skin
his fingers and everything else
I live in the unfortunate reality
where death does not always mean mortality
where we must constantly question morality
and the people are turning to brutality
I am afraid.
Good morning, good afternoon, good evening, and goodnight.

I know I'm not relevant, I'm not dense, but I am more than 0's and 1's. So are each and everyone of you.
I know for many people this site brings comfort, peace, joy, and release from the outside worlds chaos and fear. I know that recently we have been having problems with the "502 Bad Gateway" error, and I have some unfortunate news.

I fear Eliot may not have a financial way to keep the site up much longer if we are unable to help. Hello poetry is unfortunately going down harder and harder as more people join and post, and less people are able to donate and eventually leave all together.

Please don't give up on hello poetry, help us to keep the place alive so more people can enjoy the art we worked so hard to create and share with the world.

I wish nothing but the best for you all, Please be safe in these scary times.

yours truly,

Sunny Semloh
I'm working on a way to fund the site from my end, if you can and want to, please help us save hello poetry.
I sit silently in a class, not exactly paying attention, but not drifting all the same.
I am stuck in that space, just before dissociation, just before conscious thought.
You still plague my mind, many years after you're gone, like you did just after the day you came.
You and I, against the world, nothing would stop us, our friendship was wrought.

I'm still in class, thinking of you, slipping away, like I always do.
I remember your hair, the purple I envied,
your manic eyes, constantly frenzied.
Your crooked bottom teeth, the rings that you wore,
your pretty singing voice, the way that you swore.

I know our memories are far and between
I wanted nothing more than to be seen
revered
loved
by you

I hope you remember me
as you are somewhere new
I hope you remember how
I loved you.

The teacher has been calling on me, my class is snickering
my head is filled with voices again, constant bickering.
It isn't the first time, and wont be the last,
that I get stuck in my head
remembering the past.
I had a friend that lived in my neighborhood for a long time, she moved a while ago, and we lost touch when she did. I get stuck in my thoughts, wishing i'd tried harder to keep close. she was incredible, and i know one day she will be great.
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