Having *** with our bodies, making love with our minds.
You've developed a guilty pleasure that coincides with mine.
Don't rush in, slow it down, baby, take your time.
Make sure yours words and descriptive lines match mine.
So our rhythmic rhythm and rhyme perfectly aligned.
With what your body language cosigned.
Words coming together,
Line-after-line,
In sync with one another,
Every single time.
Co-writing partners
You're words; not mine.

I  hope you                          regret breaking
my tiny fragile heart          into a million and one
splintered shards of bitter/sweet, broken memories
just as much as I regret fall\ing for you and that ever-
present sparemint scent/that seems impossible
to shake off of my mi\nd as much as I try
and off of my/ lips, which
are noth\ing but
dry.

                                                                            - g.d.

I dive in the human sea.
Only a small water drop
In the dripping crowd.

The infinite ocean rages
The endlessly mass rears up
Like a gathering thunderstorm.
Seething, sinister alike as soothing.

The thundering, mighty tsunami
devours me, wreathes me,
lets me be a part of
the force of nature,
gives me strength,
makes me feel like
I'm invincible.

I drift and float
Until I'm weightless
And drowned..

There is this moment.

After hectic hours in the daylight.
The view minutes after the landscape
was painted in the splashing colors of sunset.

Before some people fall asleep
Or break out in an insane serenity
Caused by the feeling of being incognito
Under the invisibility cloak of the night.

There is a moment of placidity.
When the last rays of sunlight
Battle with the first stars
For the ******* of the sky.
When the shadows grow longer
And blur between light and darkness.

When the surroundings are dim-lit
I am the most alive.
The silence makes me hear.
The monochrome paints make me see.

I step out of the penumbra
And vanish in the outlines of the world.

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.

You will not be meeting me
at the train station,
wearing nothing but a sundress and
the warm scents of
wet desire rising as
a lustful fog
from your steaming forest,
anytime soon.

The heat would **** the sun.

I will not be showing up
on your doorstep,
rigid and pulsing
with the blood of
centuries coursing through
my thick roots,
in the nearest future.

The pressure would crush the moon.

Instead,
I swim in your teacup
and warm baths
while you roam in
the smoke at the edge
of my shadow.

I feel your soft whispers
across the ocean of time
as they float on broken
spiderwebs of memory.

Our love is in the words
between the worlds;
resting in the
wet soil of
an afternoon nap,
we bloom as one.

As the fire of night
descends, destroying
the boundaries of time
and space,
we transcend all that
is cold and unforgiving,
leaving behind only
echos of wanting.