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the shoes are imprinted with the paved streets
there is never enough time


our eyes sparkle
but the eyebags belied the many nights
whiled away

smiling at the stars
new maps every night

gazes change as the skies change
we traverse different longitudes

trees spill into trees
there never was a need to distinguish

our passports fading crumbling
paths always leading to each other

will we still be left with an identity?
Response to the (sensational) Belle B's poem, "(Want) a little recognition" which can be found at: http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1025097/want-a-little-recognition/

Always taking this collection a step further. Join us!
The chase ends
when you stop running
from yourself.
That thrill is the fear of responsibility.
sometimes
i apologize so much
i feel like i'm saying sorry for my existence
I'm so sorry
 Jan 2015 belbere
Tide Islands
My sorrow has nourished these lands,
where I've sown
the tears of your remains.
It will continue until
the last gasp of air escapes my lungs
in a tomorrow far away.
The dense fog of despair will clear after the winds
carry me to you.
Then, sunlight shall pour through the clouds
and fill the fields
with a splendor that won't be observed
by people who are too busy
living with their minds closed off
and eyelids crusted shut.
In death, they shall join us as limbo roses, wild daisies,
Queen Anne's Lace, living on
in forgotten memories, vibrations, and colors only seen
through the cones of bee eyes.
One day, the glaciers will melt, and humans
will become mere fables
whispered about in the ballads of tidal waves
that eat away at the dust
from the haunted world of yesterday.
Not long from then,
the sun will engulf us, and we shall join the constellations
of a far off planet.
Galaxies will collide, and we'll become lost
between the cross stitches
of unnamed dimensions when time no longer ticks.
Eternity won't remember
our names, but it will have breathed them
for just a moment.
07.01.15
© J.E. DuPont
 Jan 2015 belbere
SG Holter
Mouthfuls of lead
Cannot silence
Free speech.

People.
Poets.
Arise.

The pen is mightier
Than the
AK-47.
 Jan 2015 belbere
Ruzica Matic
***
 Jan 2015 belbere
Ruzica Matic
***
The river rippled
between my fingers
and it was velvet
and satin
and steel

The day smelled
of old earth
and secrets

that day
when we went fishing
for the truth

And the hooks
glinted in the sun
they were beautiful
and lovely

lovely killing things
 Jan 2015 belbere
sleeping bag
i can still smell your cologne
on my fingertips
from when i held onto your neck
and touched your face
i can't tell what color your eyes are
between the subtle green and grey
glistening like worms on a sidewalk
after a rainy day
your eyes are like the sidewalk
there are literally worms in your eyes
hanging out of the empty sockets
you do not have eyes
you are a zombie
your rotting flesh drips in my direction
sallow arms reach for mine
and i'm just aching to know
why zombies wear cologne
and why i can't write
a ******* poem about my feelings
without resorting to zombies
out of fear of expressing myself
because in real life your eyes are still green
and they are so beautiful
poems are hard
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