Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Oct 2014 · 381
Pass The Future
Matthew Harlovic Oct 2014
The past is the past
The future is the future
This is our suture

© Matthew Harlovic
Oct 2014 · 7.9k
Cautiously Curious
Matthew Harlovic Oct 2014
Curiosity
it kills and conceals the keep
Generosity
it fills the mind up with cheap
talk, think cautiously

© Matthew Harlovic
Oct 2014 · 579
Wishful
Matthew Harlovic Oct 2014
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.
Oct 2014 · 620
Senseless Sentences
Matthew Harlovic Oct 2014
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
Oct 2014 · 1.9k
Front Line Lullaby
Matthew Harlovic Oct 2014
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
This is a hip hop song that I wrote and soon will be releasing on soundcloud.com/outtatune-1 You could argue that hip hop isn't poetry or you can read the story I wrote. For clarification, this story is about two different lives of the same man. The first, is of his time on the frontline. The second, is his time as a homeless Vietnam war veteran.
Oct 2014 · 472
Cast [kast, kahst]
Matthew Harlovic Oct 2014
Cast [kast, kahst]
1. v. To throw or hurl something; fling: We cast our desires or ambitions into a river called life. 2. v. To shed or discard: We cast away our struggles and fears which eventually subside into the shallows of our shores. 3. n. A slight trace of color; a tinge: Although the cast of the sunrise upon the river’s edge leads us to a new-fangled dawn, it takes us away from our fate set by the current. 4. n. The form in which something is made or constructed; the arrangement: The cast of the river’s scenery is stowed up as memories so we can reminisce on the features later in our lives. 5. v. To twist or turn; warp: The river casts into various routes that carry us to our travel’s end.
Oct 2014 · 9.4k
Burnout
Matthew Harlovic Oct 2014
They say I’m a burnout,
they say I’m brain-dead
but I’m proud I turned out,
with a light above my head.

© Matthew Harlovic
Oct 2014 · 1.2k
The Precarious Pool
Matthew Harlovic Oct 2014
On my hands and knees,
I peeped over the board
Momma did you see?
There was a squid with tentacles like extension cords!
Oh! Never mind it swam away…

On my hands and knees,
I crept to the edge
Momma did you see?
There was a shark as big as the front yard hedge!
Oh! Never mind it swam away…

On my hands and knees,
I snuck to the brink
Momma did you see?
There was an eel that could fill up the kitchen sink!
Oh! Never mind it swam away…

Momma! Momma! Come look, come quick!
I think there’s more! Oh wait! Forget it…

© Matthew Harlovic
Have you ever peered over the diving board as a kid and imagined all the things that could be lurking in the water? I sure did.
Jul 2014 · 1.2k
Radiohead
Matthew Harlovic Jul 2014
I froze up** on the staircase, staring at space much like a jigsaw falling in place. I was high and dry like a lotus flower in bloom. Lost in the fog as I tried to sail to the moon. I was searching for the subterranean homesick alien on Planet Telex to ask him the million dollar question he spoke in codex. So I’ll never find out the answer for the talk show host just like how the spooks won’t give up the ghost.

© Matthew Harlovic
This is my third poem created by combining song titles from the artist. I believe that each title contains a certain story within itself. Therefore, I took certain titles and created a story out of it. This band is Radiohead. Enjoy.
Jul 2014 · 4.1k
Pink
Matthew Harlovic Jul 2014
So what** do you mean, you can’t take me home? Baby please don’t leave me alone (I’m lonely) and I don’t want to take the walk of shame home sober Well that’s ******’ perfect, love is such a crazy thing until you realize that it’s over. So let me let you know, that you make me sick, it’s sickening, that most girls will fall for your private show.

© Matthew Harlovic
This is my second poem created by combining song titles from the artist. I believe that each title contains a certain story within itself. Therefore, I took certain titles and created a story out of it.
Jun 2014 · 951
Miss Nature
Matthew Harlovic Jun 2014
We drove down the drunken arrow
with slack on the pedal during the steep
inclines. Roundabouts rounded out my
view of those pullman pine peaks
from what I’ve read in geography.
But what I didn’t read was the sightseer
schemes: there’s a price fix on the peaks,
there’s a price fix on air,
Mother Nature is selling
her body to the public.
If we want to pay any kind
of mind to her we need pay
up before we spend time with her.
But this isn’t how it should be,
we should be able to see her
without a cost per hour.

© Matthew Harlovic
A poem inspired while I was spending a little time up in Colorado.
Jun 2014 · 552
Forgive Me Lord
Matthew Harlovic Jun 2014
Forgive me Lord for I have sinned,
I have taken your name in vain
and then abused that vanity to
raise my own name.
In spite of the green-thumbed
that wander your garden,
I tried to gather as much fruit
as my arms could carry before
Jacob’s ladder gave out to my weight.
But knowledge is a burden that even
Atlas can’t get a grasp of.
Forgive me Lord for I have sinned,
For I’ve fallen to the seven wonders of
this world that you didn’t warn this sheep of.

© Matthew Harlovic
Jun 2014 · 2.4k
Opportunities
Matthew Harlovic Jun 2014
For every door that closes another window opens
But my momma warned me of strangers
so I latched the window shut, hoping
that opportunities wouldn’t put me in danger.

© Matthew Harlovic
Jun 2014 · 10.9k
Beatles
Matthew Harlovic Jun 2014
Good Morning, Good Morning, Good Day Sunshine. The Night Before was A Hard Day’s Night. I, Me, Mine, I mean, I Feel Fine, Better, than I ever felt In My Life. I spent midnight in the Strawberry Fields down by Moonlight Bay. I was Searchin’ for Maggie Mae but met up with Penny Lane so we ran around in Circles till it started to Rain. Yesterday was Something , but I can change I promise you that I Will. From Me To You , I can be more than The Fool On The Hill. Yes It Is, a little silly, but I Just Don't Understand. Why you constantly lose faith in this Nowhere Man. But We Can Work It Out, Because, well I Need You, but all you got to do is believe Like Dreamers Do.

© Matthew Harlovic
I tried doing a different style of poetry. This is where I'd take a band or singer and use their song titles to create a story. Therefore everything in bold is a song title by The Beatles. Enjoy folks.
Jun 2014 · 389
Adam's Street
Matthew Harlovic Jun 2014
We were walking down Adam’s bend,
stumbling on sweet nothings
that sprouted up in the spur of the moment
in between the cracks in our conversation.
That evening seemed as sweet as the
second-hand secrecy we shared.
She turned to me,  
with a bottom lip white-washed  from nerves,
and slowly asked, “Matt?”
She let a breath flutter
like those ivory black lashes,
“Should I really be doing this?”
In spur of the nerves, I laughed, “Doin’ what?”
she shyly spoke “This...”
I felt lips press against my collar bone
It was chilling. I froze up.
She kissed up my neck,
and my heart thawed.
She kissed my cheek,
and it began to drip.  
She kissed my lips,
and a note that hung on my lungs read:
“Slippery when wet”.
Alas, it lasted a couple of seconds,
with a couple of baby’s breaths in between,
but this wasn’t my first kiss.
It was my first kiss on the lips
of a woman that I knew I loved

© Matt Harlovic
Mar 2014 · 8.9k
Bloomed Beauty (04/24/14)
Matthew Harlovic Mar 2014
I like my women like I like my flowers,
down to Earth, and she’s rooted to the concept.
From her orchard, orchids cry out that she’s
a beauty. A beauty as bold as baby’s breath
but she’s not soft-spoken. It’s written in her
blue-eyed, irises that she’s a stargazer
with a heart made of marigolds, laced together
by Queen Anne. She sprouted out of that cracked
cement with tulips curled to the cosmos, greeting
morning glories with a stellar smile, that I fell for
like a shooting star. She’s a bloomed-beauty that’s
bound to this Earth, and well, I’d pick her up any day.

© Matthew Harlovic
Everything in bold is a type of flower.
Mar 2014 · 349
She Called It Dead Weight
Matthew Harlovic Mar 2014
The magazines convinced her that fit is divine
so she decided to refine her outer design.
She contorted her diet and cut her life into portions,
then at night she would sneak away to visit the porcelain.
But baby, please don’t cut away anymore
because I loved you just as you were before.

© Matthew Harlovic
Mar 2014 · 519
Carry On
Matthew Harlovic Mar 2014
Dwell not in the past
nor dwell on what is to come.
Concentrate right now.

© Matthew Harlovic
Haiku
Mar 2014 · 2.0k
On Grudges
Matthew Harlovic Mar 2014
Grudges blister hands
Leaving scars on skin like stamps
Strive for forgiveness

© Matthew Harlovic
Haiku
Mar 2014 · 3.8k
The Early Bird Gets The Worm
Matthew Harlovic Mar 2014
The early bird croons
seducing the morning worm.
Mother cries softly.

© Matthew Harlovic
Haiku
Matthew Harlovic Mar 2014
****** tension.
Luna wants to be on top,
Helios gives in.

© Matthew Harlovic
Haiku
Mar 2014 · 941
Icarus
Matthew Harlovic Mar 2014
He fiddled with the buckle on his belt
it was just a set of strings strapped to his spine
smeared with sunburnt wax
but he didn’t know any better
it was just a set of strings strapped to his spine
fashioned by his father’s fears
but he didn’t know any better
exodus was upon them
fashioned by his father’s fears
gravity pulled him down
exodus was upon them
his feet were like anchors
gravity pulled him down
down to the trident’s tides
his feet were like anchors
his wings were heavy
down to the trident’s tides
smeared with sunburnt wax
his wings were heavy
He fiddled with the buckle on his belt

© Matthew Harlovic
Mar 2014 · 1.1k
Salmon Stalkers
Matthew Harlovic Mar 2014
Across the kitchen’s smudged timber,
twin tomcats with limestone irises
sit and wait for a speck of salmon
to fall from my Mother’s cutting board.
One day they’ll snag a scrap.
If these floorboards could think
they would know when to warn
my Mother of their swift actions.
Noses prodded up like steam,
they could sense that today was their day.
They traced the lemon-soaked salmon
to the sunflower-slick pan.
They stalked the smell of
low-cholesterol cooking.
They hung on my Mother’s, “stay back”, tone.
But they never backed away, they sat there,
soaking up the sight of her setting down the plates.

© Matthew Harlovic

— The End —