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 Apr 2014 Dhirana
Andrew Durst
I fell in love
with poetry the day
it became the only thing
I understood.
 Apr 2014 Dhirana
J
Travel.
 Apr 2014 Dhirana
J
Your veins are the roads I will travel
As I unfold your body
And plot each point with a fingerprint
I try to leave the land
The way I found it
But a trip always changes the traveler
And I don't want to go home.
 Apr 2014 Dhirana
J
Why is hellopoetry.com black and white? I've always wondered about this... why my colorful photographs are required to travel back in time. How does this effect the poetry in any way, shape, or form? But I understand the wisdom of this design now. And it sets a great metaphor for all of the people of the pen involved in this truly noble motion, this secret society for people with passion, talent, and troubled minds and souls. Hello Poetry is black and white not because it has to be monochromatic and modern, but because us poets fill these pages with enough inovativeness and color already with our words, ideas, thoughts, songs, senryus, ballads, heartbreaks, insecurities, that adding literal color to this website would be overwhelming. These soft undertones of gray, black, and white may be considered drab and depressing to some, but to us poets it represents timelessness. And this is probably why we are all here. Hourly, daily, weekly, monthly, or even yearly publishing poems. Because we all know we are not going to live forever, and we are so entirely insignificant in the broad scheme of things and of the universe itself, that it is a bit comforting and helpful to have this coping mechanism or soft blankie to calm our fears, that this literature we write, however insignificant it may be, is absolutley permanent. And that maybe someday it will be remembered so a small bit of us may live on. Tom Riddle knew the needs and wants of man kind before anybody else realized it. Maybe he was just trying to cope with the fact that he is insignificant. These poems are all our Horcruxes so *viveamus per camenam nostram.
^^^let us live through our poetry
 Apr 2014 Dhirana
ethyreal
he had three left shoes
a tin can crumpled into an ashtray
and ate half a can of beans each day,
****** ***** from the pores of perverted men,
smoked used cigarettes from ****-stained back alleys,
licked clean ***** needles,
and slept on the side of the road just to breathe
in the car fumes.

and one day he found
he was down to his last crumbs;
the muscles in his face didn't move once,
as he shrugged a translucent corpse into
the deep earth.
a grave for a man with no name,
no mother or father,
a grave for a man who simply appeared
on this earth one day,
the same way he left.
a man who lived off
nothing but starvation spread thinly over
lost dreams and vices.
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