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Özcan Sh Jun 2018
I saw her on a bench
She held a book in her arms
And a pen in her hand
She brandish her pen like the waves on a sea
The ink from the pen was blue as the sky
When her pen touches the paper
Her eyes begin to shine like stars
She loves poetry
Treated the words like jewerly
When she look deep into my eyes
I felt that she wrote a poem
Deep inside my heart.
You emitt a sense of dignity
You display beauty and excitement
Your appearance is a sight that can heal any brokenness
Your spine holds together all the stories of your innermost being.

Your structure aids your courtesy
A flip-style lid that uncovers all your experiences
A passageway to your inner workings.

Your appearance is mostly a façade;
One that enlightens and softens the viewer
When the lid is flipped and your inner self uncovered, everything seems different.

Your inside displays short bursts of anger
Punctuation is used all over
Complexities in understanding display uncertainty
A sense of broken and relentless suffering;
One that is nothing less than negative.

The shell around this inside is solid, rigid and safe.
Without opening the lid up, the inside would not be exposed.

These two entities are completely different and independent from each other.

You are like a book:
The outside - the lie
The inside - the truth.
cherry blossom Jun 2018
You know how you know the moon's name, but it doesn't know yours?
feels like being sidetracked
How its light beams mildly to your eyes, but yours, just irrelevant
Cold breeze makes you shiver
but the night takes no effect from you

It's nothing like your touch,

You touch me like a cotton ball,
carelessly, effortlessly gives a sign of relief
A sigh of affirmation,
of how this spot is reserved for only me
and your hands are designed to remember every edge of my body
and how you say my name,
like its the only thing that matters
and how your gaze sends electric signals as you utter words, so gently.
I feel my knees melting
No, I can't feel them anymore
And I feel like I'm floating

The night, once against me, has become my fortress, our fortress.
Inspired(?) by Leah on the offbeat, so you know tonight, I'm in love.
6/11/18
Aa Harvey Jun 2018
The Poet Condemned


I have opened my mind and unleashed Pandora’s Box.
My mind is now open, but my will is now lost.
Freedom of the mind; open and clear.
We couldn’t see the demons, but we can feel the fear.


Laying down to rest, my mind springs to life.
Wake up!  Wake up!  It’s time to write!
How?  I’m exhausted!  I can’t think of a thing.
Nonsense!  Write a line…And then do it again!


Your soul pours out your head, like a waterfall of life;
But as your mind opens up; the demons creep inside.
You have opened your mind and let in damnation.
Now the demonic voices; you shall forever be hearing…


Write us a rite!  An incantation!
Call us up, another demon.
Write us a rhyme, so divine and sublime,
That it shall be remembered,
For the rest of time.


Another day.
Another dollar.
Forget the squalor that surrounds you.
The island of your bed, amongst the dirt shall stay true.


Throw it away!
Find it another day.
Write another poem!
Try to look happy.


So what if your hope and faith have disappeared?
Just speak the truth, I have never lied; you will always hear,
That dark voice creeping, upon you once more…
You are tired and you have written all the poems you can…
Now write us a book!


Make it really interesting for the little people;
Oh and you’ve got to add a few Demons.
Do it!  Do as you are told!  Write me a book!
I don’t care if you are tired.
Write it and make it good.


Now the book is written;
I’ve told the stories meaning.
The book will become, ‘The Books’
Of this poet’s Demons.


So now ten years later, I sit on the beach.
I have a wife and kids now…and I still have my Demons.
My Demons and I have grown to like one another, at last.
I know I am The Poet Condemned…
But at least my demons are a good laugh.


So I sit here at the end of another poem…
Hello Mr. Demon, yes I know, I was just starting,
To write another poem to appease you…but now I’m retiring.
Because I can’t get a publisher…
So Mr. Demon; it’s time for you to be going.


(C)2011 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Aa Harvey Jun 2018
The book that never was


There is a book inside my head;
It feels as if it is one I have already read.
It’s trying to escape,
But I can’t write all the words that are so difficult to say;
There are not enough hours in the day.


I wish I could release them from my mind,
But they will remain trapped until I do what I must.
I hope one day I will be able to find the time,
But for now, you will just have to read my poetry about love.


I just can’t write it all down and remember what has happened;
I guess I’ll never finish it, because I have become distracted.
It has become the book that never was…
I hope you can do what you want to do;
I do what I can do, but it was fun while it lasted.


(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Aa Harvey Jun 2018
You don’t want to read this.


I’m reading this poem and waiting for something to happen,
But so far nothing has been able to seize my attention.
I await to see which word will give rhythm to the rhyme,
But it is an expected disappointment; a lack of perfection.


Still onward I read, hoping for a change in the way it is structured,
But this is simple, not memorable; just words without thought.
Why can’t it be better?  So amateurish; so fractured.
Simply lame and without impact; clearly no talent at all.


I’ll give up on this poem; it is simply more of the same.
No story, no idea, not worth reading, I would say.
But I am here to read, so I shall continue once again
And remain unmoved, uninspired, unimpressed; bored I remain.


Where is the wit and the substance? (The killer without the filler).
Where is the dark side, the good life, the romance of death?
There is no image portrayed here, he certainly cannot deliver.
He is just wasting my time; there are no good lines left.


Someone whisper in his ear and tell him to change his ways.
Write a poem I want to read, you should write just like me.
The real you is boring, so lay back and be fake.
Read more poetry, write more poetry; see what I see!


I see sunshine and blue skies and rabbits bouncing by!
I see rivers flowing gently, people holding hands and love is in the air!
I see happiness and joy and a world where nobody needs to cry!
And all he talks about is depression and a life going nowhere.


Be more positive about love!  We have had enough of the heart break.
Write about lovers and marriage and a family that lasts.
But no, he continues to bore us, with nothing of interest to say.
I’m sorry I ever began to read this poem;
If I bought his book, I would take it back.


I’d like a refund please; he doesn’t write what I like.
He doesn’t talk about the outdoors and the colour of the leaves.
He doesn’t know about love and is no artist, he cannot write.
Why can’t he take a lesson and learn to write poetry?  Do it, please!


Poetry should be written this way, the way he writes is all wrong.
Poetry should sound like my favourite poets; nobody is unique.
Poetry should be written according to my idea of what is strong.
This is weak in its word usage; he bears no resemblance to my clique...


From time to time you need to expand your mind.
What’s yours is yours and what’s mine is fine.
I can never meet your expectations.
Realise I am being real when I disappoint you without explanation.


My poetry will never change the world intentionally if attempted,
But one mind at a time can be influenced if not rejected.
Take my words into your mind, if you have the time
And I will thank you for reaching the end of a poem,
That I know you just didn’t like.


(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Jo Barber Jun 2018
Sun bounces off leaves,
hopping from branch to branch,
reflecting across the whole world.
Flowers bloom - red, blue, and green,
sending succulent scents to you and to me.

This soft breeze
floating from the bay
blows all my troubles away.

Book in lap,
Coffee in hand,
Please understand -

if I always felt this way,
life would walk with a much sweeter sway.
Bethie Jun 2018
My future life with poetry
Began at a rummage sale
When I was young and innocent
So sweet and kind and frail

I had a dollar from my mom
To "spend it wise" she said
I looked and looked for pretty things
Her words inside my head

I saw some little figurines
My sister went to buy
I began to get a bit desperate
Until something caught my eye

I saw a book, just sitting there
A cover of musty blue
It seemed so sad and lonely
That somehow I felt it, too

I picked it up and bought it
Not knowing what was started
For in my hands were lines of gold
That from me would not be parted

Those poems helped to shape my life
And read them, I still do
But now I make my own to share
For me, and yes, for you
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