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Where would we go
if tomorrow never came
would the flowers still grow
if we never felt the rain
would you still love me
even after the pain
and miss me when I'm gone

Would fire still burn a flame
and would you call out my name
in dreams that only fade
would you still love me
when our eyes couldn't see
the memories we made

Would yesterday still remain
if I was to hold you again
and your heart I could mend
would you look at me
if I gave you more to see
would you still love me
if we were able to be
what we were in a song
Spiritwind ©2016
II

But only three in all God’s universe
Have heard this word thou hast said,—Himself, beside
Thee speaking, and me listening! and replied
One of us . . . that was God, . . . and laid the curse
So darkly on my eyelids, as to amerce
My sight from seeing thee,—that if I had died,
The deathweights, placed there, would have signified
Less absolute exclusion. ‘Nay’ is worse
From God than from all others, O my friend!
Men could not part us with their worldly jars,
Nor the seas change us, nor the tempests bend;
Our hands would touch for all the mountain-bars:
And, heaven being rolled between us at the end,
We should but vow the faster for the stars.
When your eyes cry
alone in the night
do stars in the sky
shine a Heaven bright
do you see the moonlight
or is it just a fading light
in the cool of a mist
from a fallen kiss

When you dream tonight
will it be of me
holding you in a fantasy
or will I be a distant memory
of what was and will never be
that you can no longer see
now that I'm gone

When you hear a sad song
does the heart inside die
of what should belong
is it me that you miss
the touch of tenderness
do you open wings to fly
or do you not even try
now that I'm gone
Spiritwind ©2016
Empty truths is all I am.
But I'm trying to be all I can.
Without giving any effort.
I just lie so I can feel the comfort.
Deep down it digs deep into my skin.
My demons come out and win.
I'm just a helpless romantic.
Lingering in the past with all its frantic.
I just get lost in my head like a dead sea.
When I should blossom like a tree.
how could I know
that your presence
your touch
your taste
your smile
your lips on my neck
could possibly be so addictive?
forbidden love is a *****
 May 2016 Jay Marie
Feggyr Citack
-on the pursuit of happiness

Let me pity your feet,
those innocent souls,
squeezed relentlessy
just for the sake of glory.

Let me balm your feet,
wash away the wounds,
mend what is broken,
soothing mute dispair.

Let me lay my forehead
on top of your toes.
Let them gently
speak their wisdom.

And I will go and join, again,
the madness of this world.

But let me feel the earth
in this crazy pirouette,
our reaching up, up, up:
digging deep, while scraping skies.
 May 2016 Jay Marie
Tavari D
Skin hot to the touch paired with your fiery temper always singes those around. Like a fire you can only blaze higher.

Aloof and cold you never express the workings of your mind. Preferring to freeze me out and give the cold shoulder until I'm begging to be burned by your touch again.

Your so mixed up being hot and cold at the same time. The warmth of your body excites me the frosty voice deters me. Its like winter in summer dealing with you.

I never understood how you can be so warm and cold at the same time and like a fool I get burned over and over again.

Even if you soothe the burn I'll freeze and shatter sooner than later.

Your so hot and cold, a real paradox you know? If only you knew how confusing you really are.
 May 2016 Jay Marie
Just Me
I write with honesty and drape it with emotion.

I wash my words with tears and dry them in anger.

I never read my words out loud, my tongue has no taste for them.

I don't notice anyone sees my writes as I notice nobody feels them.

I tap my words on to a screen as I watch my tv.

I write my words just with me and expect nobody.

Words scrape raw into my mind, on to the screen.

They reap my pain in the most simplest way.

It's not very beautiful, not like my hello poetry friends, but it's just like me no time for etiquette.

The words stumble from my mind, much like someone who has lost thier way.

And my heart reads into every line, even when I say I bare none.

Be it rushed, sloppy and brazen...

My words always always find their way onto my hello poetry page.

I get lost in all of my fellow writers, writes.

But it's no surprise, because that's how it is in my everyday life.

I'm lost and I'm found, alot down and almost never sound.

I write how I live.

I write only what I live...

My echoes are all I have to give to my hello poetry friends.
Such a small place, with so much talent. How could I ever compare. Still I find this my poem home... And I think that here it's ok to not fit in. I enjoy reading my fellows writers, writes. I try to keep up, but my focuss doesn't always allow it. I am happy to be lost among such a group.
 May 2016 Jay Marie
Anne Sexton
Watch out for power,
for its avalanche can bury you,
snow, snow, snow, smothering your mountain.

Watch out for hate,
it can open its mouth and you'll fling yourself out
to eat off your leg, an instant *****.

Watch out for friends,
because when you betray them,
as you will,
they will bury their heads in the toilet
and flush themselves away.

Watch out for intellect,
because it knows so much it knows nothing
and leaves you hanging upside down,
mouthing knowledge as your heart
falls out of your mouth.

Watch out for games, the actor's part,
the speech planned, known, given,
for they will give you away
and you will stand like a naked little boy,
******* on your own child-bed.

Watch out for love
(unless it is true,
and every part of you says yes including the toes),
it will wrap you up like a mummy,
and your scream won't be heard
and none of your running will end.

Love? Be it man. Be it woman.
It must be a wave you want to glide in on,
give your body to it, give your laugh to it,
give, when the gravelly sand takes you,
your tears to the land. To love another is something
like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall
into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.

Special person,
if I were you I'd pay no attention
to admonitions from me,
made somewhat out of your words
and somewhat out of mine.
A collaboration.
I do not believe a word I have said,
except some, except I think of you like a young tree
with pasted-on leaves and know you'll root
and the real green thing will come.

Let go. Let go.
Oh special person,
possible leaves,
this typewriter likes you on the way to them,
but wants to break crystal glasses
in celebration,
for you,
when the dark crust is thrown off
and you float all around
like a happened balloon.
 May 2016 Jay Marie
Anne Sexton
You said the anger would come back
just as the love did.

I have a black look I do not
like. It is a mask I try on.
I migrate toward it and its frog
sits on my lips and defecates.
It is old. It is also a pauper.
I have tried to keep it on a diet.
I give it no unction.

There is a good look that I wear
like a blood clot. I have
sewn it over my left breast.
I have made a vocation of it.
Lust has taken plant in it
and I have placed you and your
child at its milk tip.

Oh the blackness is murderous
and the milk tip is brimming
and each machine is working
and I will kiss you when
I cut up one dozen new men
and you will die somewhat,
again and again.
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