i'm not impervious to the fact that
if the universe allows
i will grow old and die one day
i know that my skin will draw back from itself
the way picasso drew on canvas
and vines and creases will work their way
into my once fair and smooth skin
but when i go i want long flowing white hair
that brushes my back gentle as a feather
and lingers behind me like a second goodbye
hair that i can twirl into knots absentmindedly
an braid while bored in church
i want ink stains on my hand from the spilled
ink of writing poetry and stories
notebooks filled with the words that came
out of the sharp movements of my hands
and my hands
i want hands soft but worn
like my mother's favorite winter coat
i want hands that have held and let go
i want hands that know what the hell they're doing
i want toenails painted the most obnoxious
shade of red and mascara packed on like a
suitcase going on a trip to heaven
i want to be that old lady with the cats
because, let's face it, we all know i'm already
that old lady with the cats
they'll be named names from literature and plays
and i'll hope their names match their counterparts
but if they don't i'll love them anyways and
hold them with these hands that will have held
onto so many things before
when i go i want to have lived
and i want to have lived really really good

Create art.


Snap it apart; tear it apart; pull it apart…
Create art.

Anything can be used to ignite my fire;
Anything can be used to set fire to my mind.
Anything can be used to keep the fire burning.
Anything can be used, except the words I cannot find.


(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.

Two bodies intertwine to be one soul. You and she explore every curve that hasn’t been carved. Both of you are the sculptors, sculpting on each other flaws. Physical acceptance is what you both tame from the beginning. It flows well. Yet, the conversation of those eyes is out of intonation. Leads to perform old war. That tender hand begins to abuse God’s magnum opus, the sculpture. More aesthetic flaws divine it. Scratches and bruises. After one whole day as it feels like one decade of hell, you both doubt that love can bring infinite elation. Silent moment fills the room. Wisdom whispers in melodically rhymes. Suddenly, the man cracks the moment.




He asks “How are you? (I know you’re thinking of something. Tell me)”

She answers “I’m fine. (I wonder if this is love or lust.)”

I am not an artist
I cannot paint a beautiful landscape that makes you believe you're looking at the real thing.
You will not stare in awe as you wonder what compelled me to paint those lines so uneven
And I can't make my color choices dance in your eyes like sugarplum fairies
Off of the canvas and into your mind
For you to transpose the choreography
To your own understanding

I am not an artist
I cannot capture a single moment in time with the simple click of a camera.
They say a picture is worth a thousand words but every shot I capture seems to be silent
Mute
But they're beginning to be heard
Screaming millions of words
Hoping someone will just hear one

I am not an artist
I cannot make your skin shiver as my lyrics echo through the room
Your emotions will not crescendo as each note burns nostalgia in your memory
And I will not leave you wanting to hear more

I am not an artist
And I can't create a masterpiece in two hours
I can't write words that will break your heart as they enter your ears and fill your soul with the emotions I'm feeling
I can't make you believe that I'm actually the character
I tried so hard to become at rehearsals for the last three months
My movements on the dance floor dont flow with ease or grace
And you will never give me a standing ovation
Or shower me with roses as you cheer for the art I've created.

But
With every step that I take on this earth
I am leaving brush strokes in the dirt and in your memory
Every laugh
every sob
every word that I speak
Is going through your ears for your own musical enjoyment
My eyes are like cameras capturing every moment and every face each time my lashes flutter
And even though most of we don't have photographic memories
We still remember the precious moments our personal cameras caught on film

I am not an artist
I am art

An artist paints a masterpiece.
Uses colour to represent intention and desire.
A highly detailed piece of art becomes his centrepiece,
his everything.

Occasionally he drops colour all around him.
Every colour at his disposal becomes mixed and splattered.

What has been used to create you is now the substance of new imagery;
A new art piece created on the floor called:
'A representation of my feelings for you'.