"horcruxes" poems
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.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 5:19 PM UTC
When you know you've lived
the exact present you're living now before,
doesn't it make sense to think of it as though...
there is another part of you in another universe,
going through the same thing?
I believe in the multiverse theory,
for I cannot prove that we are not alone.
I believe there is a reason why
I feel the skies talk to me every night.
I believe someone's message is reaching me
through the beams of the moon every night.
My skin seeps it in
like a flower knows to bloom.
Ever think of a time difference
between one universe and the other?
What if we are born here on Earth and after we die,
our soul travels to another universe
and relives the same story?
What if...
we are a horcrux of our own soul
which is split up and placed
in different universes?
Nov 19, 2016
Nov 19, 2016 at 1:13 AM UTC
the soul of a writer can be found
in words
s cr
ib
b led on
crumplednapkins -- like horcruxes--
when sleep feels like a far off dream (when people watch you, wondering if you are strung out on coke while you scratch words on these thin sheets of paper in restrauntsbarscoffeshops
half
mad
eyes glassy)
in discernible handwriting comparable
to some
primitive
hieroglyphics-- a language of voices in your head and dreams too vivid
they can be found on the backs of hands
and journals
and popcornbags
when nightlights are too dim in the early hours of insomnia
and moonlight is obscured by curtains
in drinks like london fogs
and ***** chais
and black coffee
and black tea
in packs of empty
American Spirits
and half-full (empty) gas tanks
and piles of books that will never be read that will be re-read and quoted
and tweed scarves and
empty journals and chipped nail polish
in dead pens and phones
in unanswered texts, emails, messages
and unrequited love
their souls can be found in the
stained
bottoms of coffecups
and sticky shot glasses
and wine glasses (some still half full of cheap
redwhitezinfadel
because rent is hard to pay
when no one wants to
read words
scribbled on the back of a napkin
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 10:03 PM UTC
The words she scribbled
were not about her
but still
they concealed a part of her soul
because
they were her horcrux !!
For all her life
she waited for someone
who'd read all
of her writings
to find her pieces
and put them together
to make her whole
but no one ever tried
so she lived
entrapped in her
horcruxes
as a prisoner of immortality !!
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 3:59 PM UTC
Here he comes,
with united forces.
Trelawney did a prediction,
the boy born at end of month,
ends your action.
The dark lord wanted to be immortal,
so he killed a mortal.
Not the boy but this father.
he tried to **** the boy.
“Avada kedavra” He shouted ,
but the spell rebounded.
Dark lord was killed .
Every one was in riddle,
come back tom riddle.
Years passed,
history repeats,
forces re-unite.
Harry and friends destroying the horcruxes.
Again he shouts”Avada kedavra”.
And finally,
Gone are the horcruxes,
gone are the death eaters
and gone is the dark lord.
(Well i want to say something i don't fear his name. He's VOLDEMORT!!!!)
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 3:48 AM UTC
There's a huge bean bag in the corner
the color of rusted tree
and a white painted outline to hold two drawers
of colorful condoms next to the Keurig Machine.
Three circular winded fanciful lights strung above,
shedding semicircular splotches on the walls.
Looking out on the Brooklyn Bridge in the 1893
painted on in black and grey haunts.
There's a magnetic pillar to the left of the too-deep chairs
that at least are comfortable,
but no one has legs that long.
A magazine rack to the right lends a variety of color, from
Love Match to Lavender, it's a mismatch island.
Smells like plastic and a cold air, with a hint of college sweat.
And there's the squeaky roller chair full of business textbooks and drawings of pigeons and bitten fingernails and arms that lead to the edges of the paper.
Masked with worn All Star sketchers and three clocks ticking,
Long labored skies and horcruxes gathered round the edges.
Yet somehow with all the oddities combined,
it's safe and sound under the flag including.
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 4:03 PM UTC
I removed my heart to keep it safe from those who label me heartless
I'm no good at noticing the double edged, backstabbing nonsense
I shattered my own heart, tore it apart, and put each piece in their separate compartments
An interesting story plot borrowed from Tom Riddles Lord Voldemort, I have my own horcruxes
Oh but I don't want to live forever
Just need a little relief lever
And make it harder to get at my more fragile components
©2024
May 30, 2024
May 30, 2024 at 3:57 AM UTC
Two shattered parts of me long for you
One breaks down again and again
servos whirring yet unable to function
Another rages at the audacity
of your accusations, your insecurity
making ridicule of my devotion
Yet another furious at myself
for giving in to the lure of love
for forgetting the inherent risks
for foolishly clinging beyond the point
to which you could stand
The sixth part attempts to reconstruct
clearing debris from broken past-loves
trying, hesitantly, to repair the damage
you created in the surface of my soul
**The seventh part is dead.
It died when you left.
It was buried in the grave i dug
In which you forever sleep.**
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 1:58 PM UTC
No kidding.
Someone,
under cover of night
or another invisibility cloak
or thanks to those goblins in Gringotts,
sneaked into Bellatrix’s bank vault
and stole the sword of Gryffindor.
What do you do with
a sword of that caliber?
Do you use it to help
the house elves in the kitchen?
Slicing bread, chopping vegetables, and cutting meat while they stare at you in awe?
Or set it on the shelf in the headmaster’s office
the same shelf above the beautiful fire Phoenix
you watched explode.
Place it next to the snapshot of Dumbledore,
smiling and winking at you
and make tiresome jokes about how it belonged to
Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived.
Or do you tuck it in the bottom of the sorting hat that placed you into Gryffindor in the first place,
wrapped in the scarf Fawkes brought you from
Dumbledore’s office?
Do you take it out when you need to defeat the basilisk or stab some horcruxes and you don’t have a venomous fang to use instead?
And do you think there in your common room,
with the dementors circling around the school, and
He Who Shall Not Be Named back again, that you could wield the sword and think you’re the
Chosen One?
Jun 30, 2018
Jun 30, 2018 at 1:25 PM UTC
Seven has an entirety about it,
a hidden wholesome within its meaning -
days, story-telling, sins and the word of Him.
The number beholding something greater
that can truly be perceived.
Seven has another meaning, a secret
only known by me -
the age when my home was broken,
the times that he hit me,
before the beating came to a stop.
There a seven pieces of me
which make me whole.
Not horcruxes, but physical segments.
My past and present,
the writer and the fighter,
the dream-daughter and the friend,
seven being the demon,
to which all the others attend.
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 11:57 AM UTC
Spent years growing up
In a dilema, holding a cup
Of tea,
Which i shared with a man
Sitting next to me
Endless words to let out
But busy as i scout
My soul, as she lives inside
Gods gifts, my pride
Like horcruxes reside
No! Not from sins
But from wins of He
The gaze locks on the rays
Tempts me to find ways
To my heart; where my old lady
Scolds me being lazy
I smile! memories brought back
As today I walk on this track
You! If you could hear me too
I am a mother now! Mother of two
Dec 4, 2018
Dec 4, 2018 at 7:30 AM UTC