We grew up together,
all 14 years of your life.
Our feet would dance raw on sandpaper
and our laughter sat on the heat.
Vegas was a tough for you.
In the bathrooms at school I would watch your eyes fall from their sockets,
with every hug tolerated your nails chalked into my back,
I sat through every insult tug your eardrum from your head.
My assistance wasn't enough.
You missed nearly 4 days of school and weren't answering my emails or phone calls.
It was like nobody was home.
I ditched school the next day and ran my worries to your doorstep until my lungs were blistered.
I tangled my feet up the stairs twice.
Broke the bathroom door and found your
body limp with your head facedown in the sink,
lip caught in the drain,
fingers were vines in between the handles,
I just sat there,
cradling your body.
Your patience dried up,
and you were thirsty,
but in the desert of Las Vegas,
water is scarce.

Curiosity
it kills and conceals the keep
Generosity
it fills the mind up with cheap
talk, think cautiously

© Matthew Harlovic

Darling, forgive me for my wishful thinking,
but I’ve been passing up a lot of pretty pennies lately.
Ever since you caught my eye in between those box seats
I’ve been tossing you pick-up lines as worthless as the
gum on my shoe. Silly me, for thinking that you gave
me another chance after you wished me well, and
well, I wished that we were more than “just friends”.
Darling, forgive me for my wishful drinking,
but I’ve been trying to pass up a lot of heartache lately.
All the times that I’ve paid mind to you, aren’t well spent.
So, this is my farewell, but let me tell you it isn’t fair
that you lost interest in my expense. Then again, shame
on me, for wishing for change after I threw it all away.

Sometimes my nonsense makes sense
and sometimes my senses are senseless.
But I relentlessly try to make sense,
all the sentences that I’ve sentenced.

© Matthew Harlovic

They ain't  got *****,
They can't have *****,
Ugh they always go to Starbucks and order a frappuccino "**** them rich uppity white ******* get on my nerves."
They all listen to One Direction and 5 Seconds of Summer,
"I really wish I had white girl hair."
All white girls have to be this, have to do that,
This is my average day at school.
It's not true.
I know because I am a white girl
But I'm not your "typical" one,
I listen to Pantera and Phish,
I don't "always" go to Starbucks.
And I have an *** thank you very much,
I'm not rich,
I'm not poor,
I have the same anatomic structure as everybody else,
I don't need to be singled out for something that isn't true about me.
White people aren't the only that can have stereotypes made about them.

I left the water boiling sanity into the pores of my skin as my face hovered over the ***,
My eyes close to the beat of Brick in the Wall by Pink Floyd.
The countdown.
5
4
3
2
I stopped the timer before 1,
Let the water scorch the tea leaves until their screams fuse to a whisper at the bottom of the mug.
I needed my sanity back,
So I lifted the mug and let the flavor of peppermint wash between the chapped cracks of my lips,
Steaming the melody of sanity onto my tongue,
my tea was cold.

One for the man bunkered down in the trenches
sent in by his country as a henchman.
He's laying in the mud, praying for safety,
losing less blood than what's shed daily.
In this hazy hell, a drug buzz is needed.
Morphine seeps in, easing the beaten.
And in no man's land, a man cries for mercy
but his cries are cut off by the hands of Murphy.
Early in the morning, he packs his bags.
Rucksack on his back, heading back to base camp.
There's a damper in the room, sunken like the marsh.
Friends have fallen, it's clearly marked.
And his heart aches but they can't be dead.
Nah, he sees them every time he lays down his head.
From time to time, he jolts up out of breath,
but he never felt more alive, when he was close to death.

It's not a sob story, no it's just old glory

Two for the man bunkered down by the park bench,
clutching a cup, praying for penance.
He's laying on cement, waiting for change,
and trying to stay dry from the god-**** rain.
In this day and age, a drug buzz is needed.
Morphine tabs, tap in the defeated.
Lungs splitting, teeth gritting, he's wishing for mercy.
Two times the dose, he curses out Murphy.
Early in the morning he packs his bags.
Rucksack on his back, he heads back to PADs.
He grabs a tray, sits alone, and says grace
because there's no space open for the "nutcase".
Arm's race to golden gates, he dragged a debt.
He carried his country as heavy as regret.
He carries his friends, they dangle from his neck.
But the thing about memories is that you can't forget.

It's not a sob story, it's just old glory

© Matthew Harlovic