I wish I wasn't shy
I wish I could be myself
I wish they could see
I'm just like everyone else

I wish I could share my thoughts
I wish I could speak my mind
But the harder I try
The more my tongue is twined

I wish I was transparent
So people could see
That the wall I put up
Is just for security.

I come off as distant
I come off as aloof
But take a look in my heart
And you will find proof.

I am no different than you.

Why should I keep holiday,
When other men have none?
Why but because when these are gay,
I sit and mourn alone.

And why when mirth unseals all tongues
Should mine alone be dumb?
Ah! late I spoke to silent throngs,
And now their hour is come.

Why is it that we are always wanting time to pass quickly?
We're constantly watching the clock, waiting for the minutes to fly by
But we never look at what it really represents
At how every minute that passes
Is a minute of your life that won't ever come back
Can't ever be recovered
As it is lost in the hands of a clock that is forever ticking
Counting down every second
Every minute
Every hour of the rest of our lives.
Each time we look at a clock
Watching the hands slowly tick by
We never do realise the meaning of what it is actually counting down to.
For it isn't really counting that one meeting you don't want to go to
Or that single maths period that feels like it will never end.
No.
That clock is actually counting down towards the final moments of the best times of our lives
The ones that we take advantage of without even realising it
Whether it's our years in school,
Or the last few years of our childhood.
The final few days you have left to spend with a loved one,
Or the true bliss of your first real relationship.

You see, through the good times and the bad
The smiles, the tears and the laughs
The times that you never really want to end,
And the ones you wish were over in a heartbeat;
This clock will be forever in the back of your mind
Counting down the hours, minutes, seconds
Towards the end.
And it's only then that you realise
That you wish to turn it back and start again.
But you don't know how
And those last few hours that you have left
Won't be spent looking at a clock.
But instead will be used to look over every single moment of your life
From the beginning to the end.

And it's only then, that the clock will finally stop ticking.

Her lips taste like gold
And I smell lilacs on the wind
As a breeze brushes back her hair
She looks me in the eye
And traces a finger down my cheek
And along my jawline
Just to pull gently on my chin hair
She wraps her hands around my face
And pulls me in for a long kiss
No words need to be said
We were speaking with our souls
And I knew there was a reason for everything
In that moment

October 18th, 1995. I was born a little more than a month early; Ma always says it’s because I’d thought of a good joke and couldn’t wait to share it with everyone. Dad says it was because I was too hungry.

Yes, my name is Harsh but I promise I’m a nice enough person. Harsh means happiness in Sanskrit and I’ve always worn that name tag proudly. I use the username "harshhappens" as an alternative to the unfortunate saying "**** happens." Happiness happens, too.

I’ve got my father’s temperament and my mother’s smile, but I love my mother’s temperament and my father’s smile wouldn’t fit my face. I look at the two of them and see a patched, two-tone mirror of myself. I’m scared of what I am taking from them and what I’m not.

My childhood was Pokemon and Legos, chocolate chip pancakes and milk, hugs from my grandparents and bedtime stories with mom. Oh, how I loved to read. If books were grape juice, I was an alcoholic.

I’ve got my share of adolescent acne, the bags under my eyes hold the weights of my sins and I’ve already got smile crinkles about my plain, dark eyes. My hair is usually combed to a side and turns into a beard as you trace down my sideburns. I dress like a trendy 80-year-old psychology professor sometimes, other times I dress like a wannabe-tumblr-model. Oh well.

My favorite colors are maroon and grey. I’m also colorblind. Go figure.

I’m going to school to help people and hopefully save them from themselves. Problems of the mind are at the root of our existence, and will continue to terrorize victims no matter how much money they earn, no matter how much *** they have, no matter how lovely their spouses are, no matter how big their houses are. When people go to sleep at night, they deserve to have peace of mind. I’d like to help with that. I know too many people who can't take it. I knew too many people who couldn't take it. No one deserves to go through that alone.

I’m a five-foot-ten-inch sculpture made without wax. If I’m nothing to you I’ll at least be genuine. I’m pockmarked and scarred in my own ways.

Music runs through my veins, along with endorphins and an appalling lack of iron. What I listen to can be like honey and sometimes it’s a hurricane. I’ve shed tears to music, it’s been a part of me for ages.

I don’t sleep very well.

I am an introvert in the most proper sense of the term. Sometimes I get oversensitive, and being with too many people or around certain people can get very overwhelming and intense, I tend to shut down in these instances. Just make eye contact with me and I’ll open up to you, I promise. I don’t like parties. I’d much rather sip a mug of coffee in my basement with a canvas in front of me and paint all down my jeans, or sit by my window and write my heart away. I’d rather take a long drive with the love of my life or take her to dinner. I don’t take pride in this solitude, I hate it most of the time. I wish I enjoyed myself at parties.

I’m scared of heights and of knives in the wrong hands. I’m also terrified of the dark.

I’m a hopeful romantic, it’ll take a lot for you to take hope away from me. I’ve been blessed with a girlfriend that is genuinely the best thing to ever happen to me. She’s the kind of girl that you work hard for but you know she’s **** worth it. She’s the kind of girl that teaches you things both about the world outside your bedroom and about the person inside your heart. She’s the kind of girl that makes you write poetry. I am plenty ******* up in my own way, but no one else can ever love the way I do; let that be a vice or virtue.

You could probably buy my soul off me for some chocolate. Or some nice lobster. Or mashed potatoes. I'm just a very hungry person.

It’s too late for my parent’s praise to mean anything to me, I needed it earlier. I live with a constant doubt that you can call self-consciousness or self-doubt. You can quote Freud all you want. I need constant reassurance that I’m worth anything to anyone and everyone and I look for it desperately. Sometimes when I get really bad I just want to hear a reason why I’m worth listening to. I am constantly trying to convince myself that I’m good enough. It’s frustrating for both me and my loved ones. I’m 150 pounds of waiting for someone to tell me that I try hard enough and that I’m all they need.

The best compliment anyone has ever given me was from my girlfriend. She said “I love your mind.”

I write because of my girlfriend. She woke up this primordial part of me that really just likes to put a pen to paper.

So, hi there. I’m Harsh. Nice to meet you.

Will you love me when I'm 80
When I walk and talk real slow?
Will you love my wrinkles
If I let them show?
Will you hold me every night
And kiss me in the morning light?
And when I see my last sunrise
Will you hold me when I die?

Love bears all things
- or does it?
I don't know how much more I can take
- but I love him.
I'm scared and weak
- I don't know where I stand.
Back to the beginning
- all over again.
Tired of being reassured
- I don't want reassurance.
I want to reverse our love's senescence
- Its death won't procure my compliance.

beware when you fall in love
with an artist
be it a painter, a singer, or poet

for the artist will
paint you
with strokes and hues
in shapes of every kind

sing about you
with heartbreak lyrics
and feelings which rhyme

write about you
with the simplest words
and a secret message she wants to say

beware of the artist,
and her love
one wrong move
and you're an artwork in her display