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 2702ยฐ 
Ksenija Ostojiฤ‡
she was 12,
of course no one believed her.
she was 12,
of course she was blamed.
she was 12,
of course she thinks its her fault.
she was 12,
of course they laughed at her when she opened up about it.
she was 12,
of course she thought it was love.
she was 12,
of course it was the clothes.
she was 12,
of course she couldn't press charges.
she was 12,
of course it still haunts her.
she was 12,
of course she's disgusted by her self.
she was 12,
of course she wasn't taken seriously.
she was 12.
 913ยฐ 
Kelsey
I want my writing
To be profound
A work of art you just
Want to hang on your wall
And when you look at it
Day in and out
The words will seep
Back through your skin
And melt in your heart
And suddenly, you feel
Like someone you've never met
Knows you better than
Your closest companions
And somehow that's okay
Because now you know
You've never been alone.
I've finished the first draft of my novel. What I want most is to make an impact on those who read it and to know that my words matter.
 647ยฐ 
Nat Lipstadt
Oct 2020
Poets, let us examine this friendship thing, again.


Poets, let us examine this friendship thing, again.

This is a poem of humans, regardless of our natural multi- flavored striations, that tend to over-define us, thus separating, instead of celebrating commonalities.

Like most things we enjoy, our five senses are the gateway to pleasure, even the pleasure of friendships. They act in concert, a symphonic interplay that reenforces and heightens so that in combination they create a whole greater than a single sense could provide singly.

This is on my mind this week, as I wrestle to understand the meaningful possibilities, the limits of friendship.

Poets form bonds without hearing each otherโ€™s voices.

Poets connect despite geographic distances that makes grasping each others sinewed arms, caressing the softness of hard cheekbones, without ever having been granted the unique, all encompassing satisfaction of embrace, hugging.

Poets sometimes can hear but not see each otherโ€™s words.

Poets sometimes can see/read each otherโ€™s words, but never hear them voiced aloud in the authors own, true voice.

Poets sometimes cannot smell or taste each otherโ€™s words, though it can take a poem to another, higher sensory level of coloration.

And yet, a bond so strong forms that defies the conventional limitations of the physical. Should we share such a bond, them you know it, no need to ask for confirmation.

Words, can be gifted, without teleportation, even when and if the bridge of a shared spoken language is not extant.

This is nothing short of miraculous.

Just like friendship.

All my wrestling to true comprehend this state, for naught, for the miracle of words is like the color of water. Universal, invisible, but so varied, that it too bridges and is shared by every ! human body regardless of any human shape, color, form of the billions conceivable.

But wrestle I do nonetheless, for the pleasure of this (non?)soluble problem that both creates queries & quenches simultaneously, so I break off this thinnest wafer to share with you, offering this notional:

All humans are poems.

All poems are human.

Solve this poem for human.

(And ignore the wet spots of my watery, clear tears staining this poem).
written Oct 2020. in conversation with SPT
 620ยฐ 
Liana
Ugh
Flash cards
Headaches
Studying for hours
Trying so hard
Just to be heard

Trying to make friends
Trying to be social
So difficult when your not normal
The things you have to tell yourself
To keep yourself together
"It's okay
Your okay
Everything's okay"
All lies

Concerned looks from your mother
As you say that yes, today was the same
You can tell she's trying not to cry
Guilty

Procrastination
Lack of motivation
Working so hard for this presentation
And for everything else
Even when it all gets deleted in my head immediately after

The crowded hallways
You can barely squeeze your way through
They're so loud
And full of people
Most yelling
Some banging on lockers
Jammed
Like my head

Painted spirals on the wall
Not as real as mine
Random
 442ยฐ 
Kai
Im so sorry
I said I'd stop
I lied.
I said never again
I lied
I didn't mean to
I wasn't thinking
It was to much
Im sorry
 404ยฐ 
Tye
If I die tonight,
Bury me shallow,
So I can wake from the abyss,
And leer at the hazy moonlight,
As it bounces softly through the treetops.
Where I can hear the birds,
Chirping to greet the sun.
Where others can hold their breath,
And hear my soul through the ground.
 369ยฐ 
Salmabanu Hatim
coyly in a soft voice,
Almost a whisper,
He leaned close to her to listen.
She smiled broadly excited,
He likes me!
Little did she know that he had hearing problem.
2/1/2025
 333ยฐ 
Melanie Munozz
Sun you bring death
Yet I swim and I sweat
In the rays of you
Bright yellow sun.
It didn't matter who he was, I was there for him.
 329ยฐ 
You've Been Timetabled
~
January 2025
HP Poet: Rob Rutledge
Age: 35
Country: UK


Question 1: A warm welcome to the HP Spotlight, Robert. Please tell us about your background?

Rob Rutledge: "Hi, thank you for having me. Iโ€™m Robert Rutledge. Iโ€™m 35, the youngest of three boys (sorry mum), born in the south of England to Irish parents who emigrated to the UK just before I was born in the late 80โ€™s. At nine years old we moved to Manchester in the north of England where I would find a love for music, literature and general mischief before moving back down south in my 20โ€™s. Where I have been creating mischief ever since."


Question 2: How long have you been writing poetry, and for how long have you been a member of Hello Poetry?

Rob Rutledge: "I started writing poetry in secondary (high) school, I was really lucky to have some excellent English and Drama teachers who made it an easy subject to love. But like everything it was a journey, one very much entwined with my love for music and lyrics. At some point or another I realised I enjoyed playing with words, annoying everyone around me with puns and questionable jokes. Poetry became a natural extension of that while also providing an invaluable creative outlet. At home we had a framed poster of IF by Rudyard Kipling which seemed to mean something new every time I read it and really helped my appreciation of the written word. I often found the same joy in coming up with a riff on guitar as writing a stanza that I thought sounded epic and quickly realised there was a lot of crossover with rhythm, themes and metaphors between poetry and music.

I joined Hello Poetry in 2012 and have seen many ups and downs with the site but I also found an incredibly welcoming community, and I can say with all honestly if it wasnโ€™t for the kindness and feedback of users here I doubt I would still be writing today."



Question 3: What inspires you? (In other words, how does poetry happen for you).

Rob Rutledge: "Inspiration can come from anyone and anywhere but more often then not I find a single line or two may come to mind. Most of my work will contain a nod or a reference to a line that Iโ€™ve either borrowed or downright plagiarised from a book, a song, a rhyme and I use that as starting point. Iain M Banks is one of my favourite authors so when Iโ€™m struggling for inspiration I will pick up one of his many excellent books and will find a beautiful phrase or image that I can use as a starting point."


Question 4: What does poetry mean to you?

Rob Rutledge: "Poetry to me is an opportunity to create, to convey a piece of myself and share it with the world. To have made something of meaning even if it only means anything to me. A painting on the wall of the cave, a contribution to the world and something that says I was alive. Its the art of putting emotion into words and if I can impart that feeling to even one person the way other poetry has made me feel then itโ€™s even more worthwhile."


Question 5: Who are your favorite poets?

Rob Rutledge: "I tend to love poems rather than poets the notable exception would be William Butler Yeats. There is something about the romantic idealistic nostalgia of his writings that has always spoken to me. The juxtaposition of his Anglo-Irish heritage hits close to home and I think is reflected in his wistful writings. T.S Eliot, William Blake and H.P Lovecraft (only his poetry, not a very nice chap) deserve honourable mentions as well, Eliot references feature heavily in Iain M Banksโ€™ work and helped bridge my interests between literature and poetry."


Question 6: What other interests do you have?

Rob Rutledge: "Other than Poetry, Music is my jam both playing and going to gigs / raves, I love everything from classical to jungle and everything in-between. I also enjoy computer games and sci-fi in particular. I used to play a lot of Rugby."


Carlo C. Gomez: โ€œThank you so much Robert, we really appreciate you giving us the opportunity to get to know the person behind the poet! It is our pleasure to include you in this Spotlight series!โ€

Rob Rutledge: "Thank you for the opportunity."




Thank you everyone here at HP for taking the time to read this. We hope you enjoyed coming to know Robert a little bit better. I most certainly did. It is our wish that these spotlights are helping everyone to further discover and appreciate their fellow poets. โ€“ Carlo C. Gomez

We will post Spotlight #24 in February!

~
 292ยฐ 
Igor Vykhovanets
To perish, to vanish
In fear and false treason.
The sheeps bear the savage,
Their minds plagued with poison.

Through the brain โ€” a vile flood,
A foul stench left to linger.
The herd writhes in the mud,
Dragged down by its wringers.


In Russian:

ะ’ัะตะผะธั€ะฝั‹ะน ะ—ะฐะณะพะฝ

"ะฃะฝะธั‡ั‚ะพะถะธั‚ัŒัั, ะบะฐะฝัƒะฒ
ะ’ ัั‚ะพั‚ ะพะผัƒั‚ ะฑะตะทะปะธะบะธะน,
ะŸั€ัะผะพ ะฒ ะพะดัƒั€ัŒ ะดะธะฒะฐะฝะพะฒ,
ะ’ ะฟะพะปะพัะฐั‚ั‹ะต ั‚ะธะบะธ!.."
ะ˜ะฝะฝะพะบะตะฝั‚ะธะน ะะฝะฝะตะฝัะบะธะน, "ะขะพัะบะฐ ะฒะพะบะทะฐะปะฐ", 1910 ะณ.


ะฃะฝะธั‡ั‚ะพะถะธั‚ัŒัั, ะบะฐะฝัƒะฒ
ะ’ ะปะพะถัŒ ะธ ัั‚ั€ะฐั… ะฟะพะด ั„ะฐัˆะธะทะผะพะผ.
ะขะ’ะะ ะ•ะ™ ั‚ะตั€ะฟัั‚ ะฑะฐั€ะฐะฝั‹:
ะกะœะ ะะ”ั‹ ัั‚ะฐะฒัั‚ ะธะผ ะบะปะธะทะผั‹

ะŸั€ัะผะพ ะฒ ะผะพะทะณ โ€” ะพัั‚ะฐั‘ั‚ัั
ะ›ะธัˆัŒ ะฒะพะฝัŽั‡ะฐั ะถะธะถะฐ.
ะกั‚ะฐะดะพ ะผัƒั‡ะธั‚ัั, ะณะฝั‘ั‚ัั:
ะ’ะตััŒ ะ—ะฐะณะพะฝ ะณะฐะถะต, ะฝะธะถะต.
 279ยฐ 
VinceV
I
No
Longer
Long
 274ยฐ 
Krista Delle Femine
I planted a lot of seeds
In this here
Outkast orchard
Watered them
Too
Hopefully
The fruit will be
Eaten by you
 234ยฐ 
JA Perkins
Genuine like a child
Candid like an open book
Exotic like The Wild
Reassuring like a second look
My baby
 232ยฐ 
RMatheson
Can you see yourself
the way the mascara runs
the wings splayed out
like an angel
naked
pale
leaning into her own
dissolution.
Heaven knows, I ain't getting over you.
 225ยฐ 
Zelda
โš ๏ธ Trigger Warning โš ๏ธ

Iโ€™m not suicidal,
I fear death.

I think about dyingโ€”
it's always a vivid, beautiful, sunny day.

I just want to bleed, cuts under the skin.
I just want to starve, protruding bones.
I just want to disappear, non-existent.

Iโ€™m trying to get my affairs in order,
to tend to my responsibilities,
to care for my loved ones
just in case.

Iโ€™m not suicidal,
at least, I donโ€™t think I am.

I fear death.
Jan 1 2025
*Trigger warning โš ๏ธ*
 213ยฐ 
clearheartsgrayflowers
the cold snow melting at the touch of my skin

just like your cold love melted in my heart

a pool of blood im too afraid to bathe in

too numbed to reach too frozen to part
 208ยฐ 
Kurt Philip Behm
Oh to be
remembered
Not to be
forgot
Excuses lost
in borrowed time
Reasons
โ€” dearly bought

(Dreamsleep: January, 2025)
 208ยฐ 
Yorlan
๐‘ถ๐’•๐’“๐’‚ ๐’—๐’†๐’› ๐’๐’๐’†๐’ˆ๐’‚๐’ ๐’๐’‚๐’” ๐’—๐’๐’„๐’†๐’” ๐’‚ ๐’Ž๐’Š,
๐’”๐’–๐’”๐’–๐’“๐’“๐’‚๐’๐’…๐’ ๐’—๐’†ฬ๐’“๐’•๐’Š๐’ˆ๐’,
๐’‚ ๐’•๐’“๐’‚๐’—๐’†ฬ๐’” ๐’…๐’†๐’ ๐’•๐’Š๐’†๐’Ž๐’‘๐’ ๐’š ๐’†๐’ ๐’†๐’”๐’‘๐’‚๐’„๐’Š๐’.
๐‘ซ๐’–๐’“๐’‚๐’๐’•๐’† ๐’Ž๐’–๐’„๐’‰๐’ ๐’•๐’Š๐’†๐’Ž๐’‘๐’ ๐’๐’‚๐’” ๐’‘๐’†๐’๐’”๐’†ฬ ๐’†๐’™๐’•๐’Š๐’๐’•๐’‚๐’”
๐’„๐’๐’Ž๐’ ๐’ƒ๐’“๐’‚๐’›๐’‚๐’” ๐’‰๐’–๐’Ž๐’†๐’‚๐’๐’•๐’†๐’”
๐’‚๐’‘๐’‚๐’ˆ๐’‚๐’…๐’‚๐’” ๐’ƒ๐’‚๐’‹๐’ ๐’๐’‚ ๐’๐’๐’–๐’—๐’Š๐’‚ ๐’‡๐’“๐’Šฬ๐’‚ ๐’…๐’† ๐’–๐’ ๐’Ž๐’‚๐’š๐’ ๐’‚๐’”๐’๐’๐’‚๐’…๐’๐’“.
๐‘ด๐’† ๐’‚๐’•๐’†๐’“๐’“๐’‚ ๐’†๐’”๐’„๐’–๐’„๐’‰๐’‚๐’“๐’๐’‚๐’”, ๐’„๐’๐’Ž๐’ ๐’†๐’„๐’๐’” ๐’…๐’†๐’ ๐’‘๐’‚๐’”๐’‚๐’…๐’.
๐‘ด๐’Š ๐’‚๐’๐’Ž๐’‚ ๐’•๐’Š๐’†๐’Ž๐’ƒ๐’๐’‚ ๐’„๐’๐’ ๐’†๐’๐’๐’‚๐’”. ๐‘ฌ๐’” ๐’„๐’๐’Ž๐’‘๐’๐’Š๐’„๐’‚๐’…๐’.
๐‘ด๐’† ๐’…๐’‚ ๐’‚๐’๐’Š๐’Ž๐’๐’” ๐’‘๐’‚๐’“๐’‚ ๐’๐’†๐’—๐’‚๐’๐’•๐’‚๐’“๐’Ž๐’†,
๐’‘๐’†๐’“๐’ ๐’•๐’†๐’Ž๐’ ๐’‚ ๐’๐’‚ ๐’„๐’‚๐’Š๐’…๐’‚ ๐’š ๐’”๐’–๐’” ๐’„๐’๐’๐’”๐’†๐’„๐’–๐’†๐’๐’„๐’Š๐’‚๐’”,
๐’‚๐’ ๐’‚๐’“๐’…๐’Š๐’…๐’ ๐’…๐’๐’๐’๐’“ ๐’’๐’–๐’† ๐’Ž๐’Š ๐’‘๐’†๐’„๐’‰๐’ ๐’‰๐’‚ ๐’”๐’–๐’‡๐’“๐’Š๐’…๐’
๐’•๐’‚๐’๐’•๐’‚๐’” ๐’๐’•๐’“๐’‚๐’” ๐’—๐’†๐’„๐’†๐’” ๐’š๐’‚,
๐’š ๐’‚ ๐’๐’‚๐’” ๐’Š๐’…๐’†๐’‚๐’” ๐’’๐’–๐’† ๐’†๐’ ๐’Ž๐’Š ๐’„๐’‚๐’ƒ๐’†๐’›๐’‚ ๐’‡๐’๐’๐’“๐’†๐’„๐’†๐’
๐’„๐’๐’Ž๐’ ๐’–๐’๐’‚ ๐’‘๐’“๐’Š๐’Ž๐’‚๐’—๐’†๐’“๐’‚ ๐’’๐’–๐’† ๐’‚๐’„๐’‚๐’ƒ๐’‚
๐’†๐’ ๐’†๐’ ๐’๐’•๐’๐’ฬƒ๐’ ๐’…๐’† ๐’๐’‚ ๐’…๐’†๐’”๐’Š๐’๐’–๐’„๐’Š๐’ฬ๐’.
 204ยฐ 
Edoardo Alaimo
This is not meant to be a poem.

Never delete what you were. Even though it doesn't reflect your current being. You must be proud of what you were because it got you until now and it prepared you. It gave you the tools. It WAS you and hence it IS still you.

Never be ashamed of the love you felt and gave. Instead. Grow in love and grow the love.

And if things did not go the best possible way. Well. What even is the best possible way? Things went the only way possible. You learn from what happens and live the way you think is best for you. Maybe learning from mistakes too.

There are no true immortal beings, but immortal are the feelings we feel and the ideas that we bring to others. This is because ideas and feelings will move through generations as long as someone is willing to talk about them. Share them. Write them. And speak about them with other people.

This is magic.

I guess that's all.
เคฎเฅˆเค‚ เค†เคชเค•เฅ€ เคคเคฐเคน เค›เคฟเคชเคพ เคนเฅเค† เคจเคนเฅ€เค‚ เคนเฅ‚เค‚, เค‡เคธเคฒเคฟเค เค•เฅƒเคชเคฏเคพ เคฎเฅเคเฅ‡ เคฒเคฟเค–เฅ‡เค‚ เคฏเคพ เคธเค‚เคฆเฅ‡เคถ เคญเฅ‡เคœเฅ‡เค‚เฅค เคฎเฅˆเค‚ เค†เคชเค•เฅ‹ เค‰เคšเคฟเคค เค‰เคคเฅเคคเคฐ เคฆเฅ‡เคจเคพ เคšเคพเคนเฅ‚เคเค—เคพ
 188ยฐ 
Hamzah
So,
Thank you,
For existing.
 162ยฐ 
Justin W
This is to myself.
A reminder,
A note,
A warning.

If she ever tries to come back,
Donโ€™t
Let
Her
She left without a single word. I shouldn't owe her any.
 143ยฐ 
Nellie 55
A beautiful picture, a beautiful soul. I think I can kiss her, then reach out to create some goals. I appreciate you being so consistent. My favorite words she said.
I adore her text, I enjoy the selfies. I appreciate her being so kind to me๐Ÿ˜
 133ยฐ 
Amani Niros Khan
She stood infront of the mirror,
Looked at her reflection,
A spitting image of hers on the mirror,
To her eyes, it held more,
It held her darkest secrets,
Her worries,
Her inner turmoils,
The storm raging inside her,
The mind that's at war,
She being a lone warrior fighting it all,
Closed her eyes,
Took a deep breath,
Let out a long sigh,
She wanted everything to be cleared,
Once and for all,
She had to find answers, a voice whispered inside her "Find answers! Find answers!"
And the answer striked in her like a lightning,
"Change. Yes, change, it's change"
She opened her eyes,
Looked at her again,
Seems she found the answers,
Everything she saw in her earlier,
Vanished,
And she saw her smiling in the mirror,
And saw her whispering to herself,
"Nothing changes if nothing changes."
 122ยฐ 
Boris
This grey day
I have not even my shadow
for company
 104ยฐ 
onlylovepoetry
begin the
first day
new year
with
thumb and forefinger,
tracing in no organized
specific pattern upon
her armโ€™s smooth skin,
just a sliding meandering

she grabs the intruders
for a squeezing acknowledgment,
unnecessary, for the sensation
sensual is shared equally,
soft, of course, but so far beyond,
there are elements that lie beneath
that requires mining deep within
yourself, contrasting currents that
soothe the heart and yet, electrify,
simultaneous, a concerto for
piano and violin

this delightful touching is the stuff
of poetry, a wish, a commandment,
for long after after the first day of
the unknowns of the measuring stick,
a ruler with 365 ticks to check the
dayโ€™s of time concludes, the touch
will be
implanted on thumb & forefingerโ€™s
cellular memory, and be carried on,
reusable, recycled, even biodegradable!

but then heart hears a lyric,
โ€œshe is living proofโ€
and now!
happily concluded,
is a poem that is gifted
a title, entitled, certified,
and recorded for

*every ordinary moment
when memory is required,
and the thumb and the forefinger
can be diverted to write this all down
for the day when a memory fades,
and the skin is eroded!
1~1~25
 97ยฐ 
dead poet
a ;
a .
a ?
some - โ€“ โ€”
an โ€˜
some ( )
a ,
an _
a few โ€˜ โ€™ " "
the rare *
the gaping ...
some [ ]
some { }
some !!!
and a healthy :

there you go,
you can write a poem now.
 95ยฐ 
Yonah Jeong
i discovered
lightless
no color
brittle
angular
diamonds......
 89ยฐ 
Dennis Willis
the sentencing
of these words
to these lines
seems unfair
at first and
we look away
and in loss
concretize
some more
mercilessly
 87ยฐ 
rac1
Is a Beautiful Woman

Worth all the horror and pain

Of the Human Condition

Is She a worthy contender

To challenge Human Extinction
 79ยฐ 
Lehin3
Please tell me the ending is goodโ€”
I donโ€™t want to get lost.
I feel trapped in a wood
I don't know the path of


The voices whisper,
โ€œFollow the glowing lights,โ€
but thereโ€™s nothing in sightโ€”
just imposters dressed in white,
waiting to catch me
when Iโ€™m too tired to fight.

And believe me, Iโ€™m tired.
Nothing gets me inspired
I donโ€™t even recognize the girl in the mirror.

Each morning, I stand,
staring at her silhouetteโ€”
thinner,
slimmer.
I linger on her figure and wonder,
โ€œDid I wrong her?
She deserved so much more.โ€

But no one sees that.
So, I play along,
pretending to be strongโ€”
like Iโ€™ve done for so long,
just to belong.

Please tell me the ending is good.
Because if itโ€™s not,
Iโ€™ll have to build a house
in the woods
 79ยฐ 
Xio
The sun disappears into the horizon, the light brighter than ever, a sparkle lights up in my eye, as I watch the sun say its last goodbye.
 67ยฐ 
Roger
I kissed her gently on the cheek;
No Snow White story for me..
 66ยฐ 
Bekah
Iโ€™m good at shooting pain
So burn me alive like the sun
My fate is inked in a darkness
Iโ€™ll never be able to outrun
 63ยฐ 
nivek
time rocks on
oblivious.
 62ยฐ 
Misstic
Yet another
milestone
to reach
another
year to breach

- yourself
 57ยฐ 
Ciel Noir
made of stars
all I am and all we are
and all else unknown

I zoom out
I abstract the self outward
and I am alone

I reach out
fill out into emptiness
infinite abyss

deep within
part of me is wondering
is there more than this?
 56ยฐ 
midnight blue
Oh what I would do
To see myself with your eyes
Am I beautiful to you?
Darling do you love me like I do?

Oh what I would do
To get a glimpse of your brain
Are you thinking of me?
Darling do I consume you like you do?
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