The chickens watch us
with their tiny T-Rex eyes,
their funny feather hats shaking
and pulsing
with Heaven only knows.

Collecting warm brown eggs
from haughty hens
is an honor.

That’s what Papa says, at least.

Papa built these coops himself,
I tell all the chickens.
He made them because he loves you
or maybe just because he wants your eggs.
I’m not sure which,
I say,
but it’s one of those two
or both.

The silkies are doubtful
and pacing
and ready to peck me into a bare corn cob,
but I’ve got an egg carton to fill
and this is the first time I can help
because Grandma isn’t home.

Papa humors my toe-turns
and my untamed joy
the way that only Papa can,
with squinty jokes
and whistle-wheezy laughs.

An almost dropped egg here,
a yellow yolked yelp there,
and my egg carton is full.

Papa wears a sunny-side up smile
and the chickens don’t mind if we sing.

Deep purple rainbows ground
Through my isolation
Their road-show resonating
And shaking my status quo haven
Singing rivals' swan song
Building a Rushmore-strong
More resilient rock song
Taking me on to the next page
As I was swept along
And came of age
Relishing my discovery
Of a wider stage
With so much more
Than three-cord monotony.

you are surreal
from what i see, i feel.

kneel before me, i'll reveal
the brush i paint the faint of heart with.

i give color to the artless,
i give color to the darkness

but you my darling,
you are my artist.

© Matthew Harlovic

in this room
where i had spent a lot of
mental suffering and
arguements with myself
about what better decisions
i could've made
if only i had been
wiser,
i'm having vague
negative thoughts
of ending my life
quickly without any
pain.
i stopped
for a moment
and asked myself
if this is were all my doings.
i don't know.
i can't feel myself making
any sense.
it's something that dies
in you.

The black

The hole in my soul aches
Waking from nightmares
hoping god will take them away
Madness the veil of midnight across all I see
Wanting to see actual reality
In amongst it all
The physical and mental wall
Has ring fenced me in
The pale emperor is king
He is the ghost of all my sin
Taken from me is my soul within?
His gnarled and twisted skin
religions faith is wretched
Stretched out of shape
I look to love but all I get is hate
But maybe if I get to write my own book
Fate will abandon its cruel story for me
If it's not too late...