Dear Hello Poetry Poet,

Hypocrisy
Is what you say
It's what you do
Everything I hear
In every "I. Love. You."

❤❤❤

You want her, You love her.
I want you, I love you.
You don't want me, You don't love me.
She only needs you, She doesn't love you.

You feel about her, The way I feel about you.
I feel your pain, I feel what you do.

The point of all this?
���

I show you sympathy and mercy.
Unlike you do for me.

So much hypocrisy
But it doesn't matter to me.

Cause as much as you say you love her, I love you that much more.
And as much as you say you'd do for her,  I'd do for you that much more.
❤❤❤

Now...
Tonight as you lay by my side, thinking about her while you're holding me tight and you find this letter here on Hello Poetry, I hope this may help you to understand,  that although I think you're an amazing man, you're hurting me like she's hurting you.

There's nothing left to say or do...
This hypocrisy is killing me and it's certainly not helping you...  

Just never forget about The Girl Who Loved You. ❤

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.