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 Apr 2014 Zul
Jeremy R Frenette
If I could but see
Through the eyes of a lover,
Cause the world is sickening,
Thoughts cloud my mind.
She sits there smilin'
Cause I love her

Cause some how It's fine.
In her eyes, not mine,
The problems in the world, and after.

While I sit confused,
She sits amused
And near to laughter,
But holds, to plainly say,
"Is it sadness you're after?"

It strikes me silent,
Though the thoughts do not relent-
Until my last breath/regret.
And it's finally clear-
                                     It didn't matter.
 Apr 2014 Zul
Jeremy R Frenette
Where a man goes
Often in repose,
Alone in candle light.-
Right. By his own designs...

He doesn't have to answer,
Can drop the role of dancer
And take just whatever.-
Endeavours he has on his mind

As fully as the coming breeze
Breathing in how it frees
His thoughts and ambitions.-
Intuitions resparked because of this...

Where a man goes
To lay down his axe, he knows.-
That in the moment when his body quiets.-
Riots cease and he can dream.|
That no one or thing,
Regardless of the news or excitement it would bring,
Cannot shake him, wake him or.-
Roar so loud as to be noticed.

This is where a man goes in fear.
Where when poverty and idle living, and beer.-
Cloud body and mind.-
Grind hope to crumbs.|
And stand on the perch of desperation,
Alone in fear and perspiration,
Dying for something to do,
Viewing savings turn to dried flies.

Returning always to where a man goes,
Delaying what he knows
To be all too true.
Do or die, or start anew.-
I think it's been a full year since I last wrote something.
An anonymous reading: https://soundcloud.com/user608182312/where-a-man-goes
 Apr 2014 Zul
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 Zul
Christina Rossetti
How many seconds in a minute?
Sixty, and no more in it.

How many minutes in an hour?
Sixty for sun and shower.

How many hours in a day?
Twenty-four for work and play.

How many days in a week?
Seven both to hear and speak.

How many weeks in a month?
Four, as the swift moon runn'th.

How many months in a year?
Twelve the almanack makes clear.

How many years in an age?
One hundred says the sage.

How many ages in time?
No one knows the rhyme.
 Apr 2014 Zul
shy
Finish me
 Apr 2014 Zul
shy
I look at you and all I see
are the ruins of what was once a
concrete
stable
beautiful
romance.

I look at you looking at her
and all I see
is the way your gaze held mine
truly
and
tenderly

I look at myself through glass
and all I see
is a broken painting.
A piece of art that you started
but didn't bother to finish.

Finish me

— The End —