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 Apr 2014 Eliot York
SG Holter
Caught in a blizzardlike
Blaze of feathers; tickled
Beyond hysteria.
Cheeks strained from smiles
Wide as wingspans of
Windborne
Angels.

Chin sore from gaping
Laughter, heart from racing
Rollercoasterly.
Each step a leap.
Each breath a moan.
Each second grounded,
An eon in flight.

All the drugs in the world
In an IV bag the
Size of a city, tapped to
My soul's veins

Would only bring me
Down from this.

It is morning.
I get to awake.
 Apr 2014 Eliot York
Celeste
we wouldn't
feel the pressure
to say the right thing

the symphony of our breathing
intermingling, then synchronizing
becoming one
would speak every word our awkward tongues
are too inexperienced to say
silence can be golden
 Apr 2014 Eliot York
Lelu
Eviction
 Apr 2014 Eliot York
Lelu
BANG!
up
to action
BANG!
rising panic
adrenalin
BANG!
swiftly
to the window
BANG!
fluorescent yellow jackets
they're here
BANG!
its the back door
set the barricade
BANG!
will it hold?
not for long
BANG!
they've come later
than usual
BANG!
we'd thought
not today
BANG!
we'd dropped our guard
prepared food
BANG!
a meal
cooked in vain
BANG!
the barricade
starts to fail
BANG!
our bodies flung
at the metal door
BANG!
summon strength
hold it closed
BANG!
successive impacts
rattle our bones
BANG!
screaming now
rage and pain
BANG!
"open the door!"
"*******!!"
BANG!
we wont make it
easy for them
BANG!
but we know
how this ends
BANG!
our home in chaos
frantic packing
BANG!
save the tools
we'll need them
BANG!
they're our keys
to a new home
BANG!
our foes advance
on another door
BANG!
they're determined
so are we
BANG!
it breaks
the door opens
SLAM!
somehow
we kick it back shut
SILENCE
they've stopped
why?
VOICES
the other door
they're in.
 Apr 2014 Eliot York
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 Eliot York
Lux
****** and nostalgic youth
We raced through the streets
Absorbing our reality
Relative to our position
Living in between the past and present
Tense.
 Apr 2014 Eliot York
Ray
I've memorized the dance routine to get down my creaky staircase;
left two three, right two three, spin, skip and check.
Then quickly get into the garage for a way-past-bedtime cigarette.
Once I’m done, I quietly walk into the living room to check on her.
Although my mother has a large bedroom,
her hips are so brittle she's claimed the living room as her nighttime retreat.
My stomach churns with guilt as our puppy leaves her side
tail wagging excited to come greet me,
something she never does for my mom.
Alone on the couch,
her desperate attempt for the shared affection our dog gives her children
clearly having failed; I nearly collapse from the guilt.
If only I could force that dog
to give her the one thing she needs, craves and deserves.
Why must the world be so hard for some, and easy for others.
Where people have their lives destroyed,
their lovers killed, their passions crushed
and others sail through it all in bliss.
Why can’t this ******* puppy go back to sleeping at my mother's feet
to show she loves her as much as my brother and I,
instead of following me back up the stairs.


A clumsy dog wouldn't know to avoid that bottom step,
my mother wakes to cold feet.
 Apr 2014 Eliot York
witchy woman
the problem with
being a poet in love,
is that you savour
& trust each word your lover has
without  question.

we are simply in love
with bare literature,
spoken from the lips of someone we hold
in higher regard
than ourselves sometimes.

when you love a poet
each word you utter,
should be a piece of artwork

each sentence,
a highly thought out structure of awe and beauty to leave us seeping
in the warmth of your voice
caressing such fine words

so when deciding that you love someone,
who writes or reads
fill their souls with beauty, memories & truth especially,
for a poet's heart breaks at ease.
thoughts.
 Apr 2014 Eliot York
Klara
I feel like I am living in a shell.
The words "you don't belong here"
are constantly being echoed back
by my limits.
Things that seem to go natural
with everyone around me
are a lot harder in this shell.
With every inhale of life I take
comes an exhale of desperation to live
and not knowing how to.
It deceived me into thinking
it kept me safe but all this time
it has been what was holding me back.
I see that now
but the words keep echoing in my head
youdontbelonghereyoudontbelonghereyoudontbelonghere

Break­ing out of my shell was never an option
I can not survive without it.
But I do want to leave it
and everyone
and everything
I do want to leave.
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