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 Nov 2019
South-by-Southwest
Sometimes I go way out of my way to decipher , uncover , research what a poet has to say . Sometimes I hit the croquet ball through the hoop . Sometimes I miss and fall flat on my face . But I attempt to return the effort the author went to to write the poem . But I seem to have made too many unhappy and will from now on limit my spill . This will be my last post for the immediate future . Thanks to all my Hello Poetry friends . Peace .
 Nov 2019
B L Costello
Lonely in love,
I feel sick,
Alone (again)
In this relationship
From the couch I see you,
Still on the computer,
I crave company,
And worry of the future,
Again!  
I am lonely,
Have we nothing in common?
I wonder now,
How soon you have forgotten,
The long conversations,
Time on the phone,
Those late night visitations,
Before you called this home,
You used to say, “hi honey”,
Now you snap, “what IS it?”
Remember me?
It’s “honey”
And I still like to visit…….
B L Costello ©2019
I am not a needy person....but ****, seasonal affect must be starting early.
 Nov 2019
South-by-Southwest
I look at the words
lying on the paper
And my heart begins to ache
I tried with much effort
But I see that
they're all fake
Somewhere deep inside
the torment does reside
Sometimes one has to accept
that the truth has arrived
Maybe the time has come
The one you ignored but feared
Every writer faces that day
The end to their
writing careers
I take a deep breath
as I look across field
still dreaming of that masterpiece
that to the masses would appeal
It's still all but willing to escape
But what more can I do
to alleviate the pain
when the words stop
flowing through
 Oct 2019
Jack Jenkins
Words don't come to me as easily as they once did
I've said it before
Said it before
said it before
Cynical echo sound away
So I erase, backspace, highlight and delete every syllable of love, fear, anxiety, I've lived through in this life
Smother my worth with worthlessness but I hope someone else feels they are worth it
That's my drive
Keeping a stranger alive another day, perhaps
Writing on a beach just to let my words wash away in the sand
Let myself soul drift out beyond the waves, but my body forgot to become drowned in the deep
where silence is the deadliest sound
and I've grown deaf
breathing but not alive
//reflection and nihilism//

I've concluded I'm a complex man
A honeycomb in a row of cubicles
Not meant for... this
 Oct 2019
Traveler
Do I know crazy
I know him well
Too much time
In and out of hell

Even the strongest
Can't keep
The sky from falling
My motor's running
My mind keeps stalling

Here I am
If there’s anything you need
My heart is racing
My brokenness is in the lead!
Traveler Tim
 Oct 2019
South-by-Southwest
School is the sieve through which mediocrity passes .

It takes all manner of forms of personality and forces them through the same sized holes
indiscriminately

The end results are ground meat for brains
 Oct 2019
Nat Lipstadt
Oh Eliot, Poor Eliot, Your Fans Hung You in the Closet and I'm Feelin' So Sad^

<>
we tithed thee with donations plenty,
here a dollar, there a fiver, a coupon for free chips,
worthy of somebody’s eternal gratitude,
that would be you,
da Duke, Duke of York

the largest online free poetry site,
a million visitors a day, why you must be
the richest poet online billionaire, right?
you,
da Duke, Duke of York and

occasional poet...

in return, all we occasional poets demand
steady on instant access, immediate satisfaction,
after all, a part time job deserves your bestus-best,
just like every other large online site, that never crashes,
we’re not like just the rest, we are
p o e t s,
occasionally

so keep the servers engines, well stoked with Newcastle coal,
keep them up and running round the clock,
using only alternative energy,
of the unceasing sun light of merry old England!

quit that other job, you must,
instead of giving up on us,
give in to us,
a poetry break, a writing recharge,
though please add a limited liability
clause to the FAQ’s,
that poets’ lives must deal with the hiccup
occasional

you, da Duke, Duke of York,
newly now, an appointment royale as Major General,^^
you, the very model of a modern major general
possessing information vegetable, animal, mineral and
technical,
who knows the Queens  of England, who,
maybe even now is telling tales of your heroics with the hordes of
hysterical
occasional
poetical
globalists
demanding
light brigadests
charging the redoubt

and
when you have a moment spare,
a haircut, please.

no, that is not a request,
naturally

<>

10/19/19
Noontime NYC
natalino
^^Messers Gilbert and Sullivan

^ Oh Dad, Poor Dad,
Hung You In The Closet and I’m Feeling So Sad
By Arthur Kopit
Jonathan
Well, I made it out of lenses and tubing. The lenses I had because Ma-Ma-Mother gave me a set of lenses so I could see my stamps better. I have a fabulous collection of stamps, as well as a fantastic collection of coins and a simply unbelievable collection of books. Well sir, Ma-Ma-Mother gave me these lenses so I could see my stamps better. She suspected that some were fake so she gave me the lenses so I might be...able to see. You see? Well sir, I happen to have nearly a billion sta-stamps. So far I’ve looked closely at 1,352,769. I’ve discovered three actual fakes! Number 1,352,767 was a fake. Number1,352,768 was a fake, and number 1,352,769 was a fake. They were stuck together. Ma-Mother made me feed them im-mediately to her fly –traps. Well... (He whispers.) one day, when Mother wasn’t looking...that is, when she was out, I heard an air-plane flying...somewhere, far away. And I ran outside to the porch so that JI might see what it looked like. The airplane. With hundreds of people inside it. Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of people. And I thought to myself, if I could just see...if I could just see what they looked like, the people, sitting at their windows looking out...and flying. If I Could see...just once...if I could see just once what they looked like...then I might...know what I-what I... (Slight pause.) So I...built a telescope in case the plane ever...came back again. The tubing from and old blowgun (He reaches behind the bureau and produces a huge blowgun, easily a foot larger than he Mother brought back from her last hunting trip to Zanzibar. The lenses were the lenses she had given me for my stamp. So I built it. My telescope. A telescope so I might be able to see. And... (He walks out to the porch.) and...and I could see! I could! I COULD! I really could. For miles and miles I could see. For miles and miles and miles! Only...
You take the time to build a telescope that can sa-see for miles, then there’s nothing out there to see. MA-Mother says it’s a lesson in Life. [Pause] But I’m not sorry I built my telescope. And you know why? Because, I saw you. Even if I didn’t see anything else, I did see you. And...and I’m...very glad.
Typed by: Jeremy Mash 2-16-06
 Oct 2019
Jack Jenkins
All signs point to depression, and side effects of depression may include talking to those skeletons in your closet at 4am when you dream about her. Again.

Talking to ghosts isn't scary or bad, mostly it's just sad, because she's still alive and you act like she's dead. She's not dead. she's just not in your life anymore.

It's been two and a half years since we last talked, and I'm sure I can reach out or find a friend of a friend who maybe knows where you are.

But I won't.

Because the same reasons that drove you away, drive me to stay where I have been for the last three years.

I have grown up, but I have not moved on, I'm just loftier and believe that I can die happy because maybe I changed a half-dozen lives for the better. But I can't prove that.

I'm not suicidal, but I still keep that shotgun barrel at the back of my mouth just to keep myself hostage to the past. To the memories.

So I stay away.

Because I'm stuck.

My mind likes to divide instead of multiply, then compartmentalize all the things I want to say. But Rationalization clears it's throat and speaks in a somber way.

"You died that day you threw your love away. Your words do not matter, anymore."

I check the time; it's 4am. Here we go again.
//On her//
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