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Guys like broken girls
because they are no pillow princesses.
They are raging animals in cages
waiting for any bite
of raw meat they can put their claws in.
Noe
Good morning, Sun. It is good to see you

You wake me ever so gently
and call me to begin this new day

I like the night you see but something about morning
calls to me

Perhaps it is my love for this quiet valley
and the feeling that while everyone is still asleep,
I am sewing  intentions for an extraordinary day

And before your golden rays kiss the sky
I believe even
I
wake before you

Good morning, Sun. Let us begin
make no mistake
i'm in a constant state of mental imprisonment
In the middle of a relentless snowstorm,
hidden in the shadows and clouds,
an oscillating flame
inhales the wind's howls
and churns amongst the gusts of snow
to produce a relentless beam
that refuses to atrophy.

The flame lingers in the blizzard
and brushes off the beatings
until a stillness forms
in the thick of fear.

The snowflakes sizzle,
the flame sears the crystalline stars;
but a pure reform
refreshes the turbulence
and allows it to dwindle
for one more day.
 Aug 2016 Andrew Hartnett
Grace
-
 Aug 2016 Andrew Hartnett
Grace
-
My brain is a locked door
and I've misplaced the keys.
Nothing will go in and
nothing substantial will come out.
I've knocked and I've rung,
but all to no avail.
The only response is the letterbox
hurling out junk mail
and words I've used before.
I haven't written any decent poetry lately, so have a short little thing.
One second.
She looks left
Calm face, slight gaped mouth.

5 more seconds.
A look right
The wheel turns ninety degrees.

3 more seconds.
Black, white, silver, grey
Shapes, blocks, lines, a blur

2 more seconds.
Grey quickly gone to red
There she doesn't move.

1 more second.
Flashes of blue, white, and red
There she lays, there she's dead.
The poetry’s gone to **** lately.
Mostly I mean there isn’t much,
but what there is isn’t that good.
Maybe, *******, life’s just
not awful these days.

Maybe my eye for the magic in the monotony’s just gotten
lazy.

I feel too good to even resent whatever it is
making me limp-dicked.

“coward,” I think.
“******* coward.”

And in a minute,
the coward I am,
I’ll probably set this page down,
unfinished
walk to the television,
turn it on
and submit
like a coward

like a corpse
belly-up
under a sky of infinitely small pixels
flashing on
and off
on
and off.
(love poem for a computer screen)
you need to be more like what's his name that guy sitting in the corner ask him a question and he knows the answer you need to take some grammar lessons this is the stuff that you need to know*                          
                                 ­                                                                 ­                       doer
forty nine cents
is all it takes
for me
to get to you
long live snail mail
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