A poem with five
moras above and below
and seven above.

© Matthew Harlovic

What hurts the most
is believing you can't write
So you let the demon, like the final wave
crash upon you and win the fight.

You love passion but you've forgotten its meaning,
searching for the bold letters in the dictionary like puzzle pieces.
You love something that doesn't follow the final print
So you let the ink tear away your paper mâché.

Stop feeling like one word can't mean another.

Love can mean cherished can mean adored can mean perceived.

We are lost in our meanings.

Every **** one of us.

Whether you like it or not, we are all lost.

Don't you realize it?

Wake up!

We are lost dolls scurrying in an open field trying to find the reality different from the one uniting us right now.

Look around. We are right there. You are here too. Beside us. That's you.

If you're alone, then the definition must mean we all are too. Alone together.

Unitedly lonely.

Now is the winter of our discontent

We are buried amongst our ancestors to lament
Yet in life we have everything but do not use it to our full extent
When young we play as we should in this world always content
You grow learning that meaning outweighs what we think we have learnt
We throw away the best of ourselves for the elders to seek acknowledgment
Then we truly realise that we have sought to find nothing but disappointment
Invent a world that you once knew and in this ambition you can rent
All your lives you know this is not how you were meant to have been to find enlightenment
The winters chill you more each year as the fire inside you dims to a flicker of fulfilment
All knowledge is inconsequential as it is when young and the fire was strong that you knew that life was meant
Now is the winter of our discontent.

It has always been about definitions. You can try and
search basically anything now and it will always prove that
meanings exist already. As if it had to always be generic for
everyone. Something that all should understand and observe.

You asked me what love is. I didn't know what to say,
mainly because there were a lot of things already made up
about this word that could only ever go as far as being both a
common thing and something rare. And that was when it hit me;
love is a subjective thing, just like how everything should be. I
know that there are already these given definitions, meanings,
and information but somehow, it always goes down to perspective.
It's always about what you see that others may not, and feel what
others don't. It's about how you see it and how you feel it.
You tried asking it again. That was when I finally knew.
Love is talking at three in the morning, or texting at three p.m.
Love is being in someone's arms closely, just there to remember
how their scent smells like, or how their breath feels, or how
their heart beats, or how their hands intertwined with yours make
you feel the safest that you are. Love is being with someone you
see as perfect—I know perfect is subjective, and that was
why you were my kind of perfect, because you were just the right
touch of my favored insanity—and being happy with the thought
of it. Love is asking someone if they are okay, or if they got home
safely, or if there is something bothering them. Love is being able
to care for someone without forgetting to care for yourself. But
most of all, Love is someone you can call home.

And so when you asked what love was for me, I could
only muster the word you.

love - noun
deep affection, fondness, intimacy
-where your jaw drops to the floor and
your heart beats out of your chest like a cartoon character
past tense
-where time slowed down, or even came to a stop
because you locked eyes with this one person across the room
and your entire future flashed through your mind
like a projector streaming home videos on a
sheet hung upon your living room wall
but it didnt last and eventually time caught back up
and you ran out of film
so again you were stuck holding your own hand

love - verb
adoration, worship, idolize
do you love me?
could you ever love me?

dont answer that

Passion behind words is something I worry I feel alone.
I’ve tried sharing my passion of vocabulary,
my passion of poetry with others,
tried showing them the entire novels only
a few lines can write,
and I worry that I seem insane.
I worry that they don’t understand me,
that I’m misinterpreted.
No, I am not saying I feel smarter than you,
I am saying I find beauty in these words,
these stories.
My father calls it beatnik.
He believes spoken word poetry exists nowhere but a paper,
that it is not meant to be spoken,
that it is a lesser version of rap--
which he also hates.
I pattern my syllables or rhyming to create what I see as art,
only to have others raise an eyebrow and wonder
what my “damage” is.
Distinguishing my deterioration is not the objective at hand.
"Words" can be so easily misspelled to say "swords,"
and swords can impale.
I suppose words can, too.

They said:
"Give it four months."

So I trusted them.

Two months had passed..
It's okay. I'd loved to tell myself.
Even though I knew that nothing had really changed

But I waited
          
I waited
and waited..

But you're still there in my mind.
I honestly don't know what went wrong.

It's been 4 years and I still have a crush on you
And people say I may 'fall for you'.

I'm not quite sure about that, though.
Because sometimes,
I'm mad at you;
Just because I can't seem to stop liking you

Even though I really want to.

We were only twelve when I knew what a 'crush' is-
The definition has a 'U' in it.

Funny enough, you used to make puns like that.

Gosh.. I miss the old you. . .

We're both sixteen now;
I witness you moved in to our school at eleven;
You grew out of your..-
Your country-ish behaviour;

I fell for the funny you at twelve;
I saw the flirty glances at fourteen;
And at fifteen,
You're a flirtee to my friend, too.

But I still like you.

I don't know what is wrong with me
..or you.
Yes, you dysfunction me, without even trying.

I want to hate you for that.

But,

People say,
If someone was to stay there,
It means God have destined them together.
Some time,
Somewhere,
Somehow,
For some reason..

Only God knows.

Is it the case with you and I?
Because I wish it was all a lie
When now, I open my eyes,
I realize
That I only have another one year
To see you.

They say:
"Get over it.
It's been four years!"

But they don't know
That this girl has actually,
Fallen
For an ex-new kid..