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joseph-hart
joseph-hart
I write poetry. I also play the piano and take lots of walks to calm my silly heart down.
And tell me why I make such fuss About a boy across from me sitting on the bus, I try to keep his features running in my head Such lust is a spiritual death. I could not agree more but his style, Costs my eyes a side dart and a red smile, But something I tell you that I really must Talk to this boy sitting next to me on the bus, Maybe he thinks something of me, it goes to show, I can't stop staring he probably knows, Or I am something unnerving to him, What if I am? Where would I meet him sometime, Our only crossroad is a bus jam Packed with everybody going back and forth, But I cannot keep your face straight, what's the worst? I hope you someday will talk to me, But hope is not my reality.
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Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 10:32 PM UTC
On the Bus
Sometimes in life those pleasures combine And ****** my world into a bind, It's something that does with time And one cannot achieve: says I Says I the secrets that knot my breast And things I know but cannot say are best And every night before I take my rest Not I not I not I. The words are choking and abating They take my tongue and my throat gasping To which my hands cannot find grasping Not I, convulsing could tell of those eyes.
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Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 8:46 AM UTC
Not I not I not I
Great auspicious life clamored against the tide Throws my eyes that closed in sudden whiles Great pardons and angels bidding time To sail back in line. They lead me on straight and narrow paths So eternity I may last.
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Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 8:44 AM UTC
Hope
You're busier than the crocodiles, Swatting at the bees, avoiding mumps and measles that carry with the fleas. In the time I could sit, and bade my day awhile, but now I've stuck to moving now, now my soul is defilled! You were busier than a ***** cat swatting at the mouse, and kicked closed, of that door, that once was our own house.
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Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 7:25 PM UTC
The Crocodile
In his absence I retain no charm, I return to a natural violence, no my arms, don't create that alarm that could charge him into that silence ne'er echo, but that primal drum, before manners were ever birthed, bring the silence to my mind, the bum-ha-dum hum, that beat I'll bite, I'll seeth! The heat a mug that clouds my eyes, ne'er dreaming nor baptized, I pray the body, the cross: I exist, and, the limbs, tender, teething, in his bones, in crux I've dreamt my loss. I retain no charm when he is here, For I never hide any whims, or tears.
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Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 6:40 PM UTC
Prime
Here I clench to a root to get fruit.
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Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 10:07 AM UTC
The Root
You, a sunflower, if I could be, at all, you do not clench to the wall, and there you stand, tall, ***** to gaze upon this blooming earth, I know I am bounded to grip the brick wall, and climb towards a heaven, to where you are so humble, I don't think I will fall, when you know, you'll do.
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Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 9:03 PM UTC
The Wallflower
Age, a concept, we're doomed to portray, to judge our virtues, which year is best, We'll hang it and proclaim each doorway, and **** it to hell, when the soul has to rest.
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Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 10:44 AM UTC
Age
I loved most of all a cold blue eyed doll. I knew that fall, I'd fall for a doll. Red my doll if it could blush, how most I'd get a such and such and my mind, a grove, a lush such and such. Then a doll raises peaceful uproars, if it weren't alive then before, I'd pray peace at its door the **** 'll open before me. I beg and steal for all, I begged for this blue eyed doll, we're stuck between ourselves and lawls, that uttered from a cold, white, doll.
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Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 8:31 AM UTC
The Doll
I've waited for you to confront me and I've been plain as a pine board; I am warping. Stick me up straight and return those favors. You haven't seen my collage in this little green book, I speak all things, true as spring. Perhaps you are waiting when the buds are sitting on the tree and kiss the air, And perhaps I can breath better and confront you: love and affection gleaming in my eye. Instead of the way I walked to my duties, nonchalantly, handing this green book to you, but, I should have smiled towards you; encourage the renaissance of truth and the affectation my mind has upon you.
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Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 11:09 PM UTC
How I've Waited for You