No more poem's, thank you;
I think that I'm done.
My notebook's half empty,
And apathy's won.

Please turn off the music;
My songs are all sung.
I think the night's over,
Although it's still young.

No more words, I beg you;
Just slice off my tongue!
They're just wasted air,
From a withering lung.

I've no more left to say;
Time to blot out the sun.
My notebook's half empty,
And apathy's won.
This space to be left blank
I’ll see you in the future.

I’m going to say, “I miss you.”

You’ll tell me words are hollow. “If you really miss me, show me.”
You’ll say, “I have two kids now. Doesn’t that bother you?”

I’ll admit, “I know. It’s okay.”

You’ll be entirely made up of mechanical gears and electrical circuits, with light emanating through the cracks in your skin.
I shouldn’t mind. It will be me who makes you this way, after all.

As we push further into the future, you’ll be less impressed with every hour that goes by. That’s how she was. So that’s how you’ll be.
Maybe I’ll be sad to see it, but I’ll be happy knowing that even if my perfectly imperfect creation decides to leave, like she did, you won’t get so far before you’re completely drained.

And only I will hold the key to restart your heart.

Just as she has held the key to mine, all this time.
I was so afraid to love you.
(a quid pro quo plug for zaftig women)

women that tip weigh ling needle to spin vicious circle
     akin to puppy chasing her/his tail
     or require digital scale,
at the extreme alt right registering heavy
     ba Jill 'en Jack knifed pail loads  
     whether young or old ought to be appreciated

     not waifer thin self starved as a rail,
instead they suffer unfair injustice
     like a trapped quivering quail
thus this fatalistic, generic,
     and holistic landlubber
     wanted to point head lee
     hammer home one secure
     heterosexual bondage stronger than

     omnipotent Marcy's Playground
     weather beaten pail
     Trent Reznor's sixty 9 inch rust free steel nail
into the coffin of bias
     against bevy of beautiful babes
     within the mind of this male,
who inherited genetic predisposition
     for being average, hearty and hale

yet feel compassion for those engaged
     in an ongoing with battle of the bulge,
     hmm... perhaps hiding ample bosom
     akin to milky sopping wet grail
or accepted unequivocally themselves
     without envy of lithesome women,
     who seem to possess flair with nary a flail
     yet possess much love to avail,

and tis wise to love oneself unconditionally
     despite premium aesthetics considered svelte
which mass media accentuates de facto spelt
definition of femininity aka runway models
     donned in faux animal pelt
whose deliberate self exhibition
     prompts madding crowd of man

     to waggle tongue with slack jaws  
     as if ready to melt
or at instantaneous signal telepathically felt
drop drawers upon removing blackbelt.
They love the metal
More than the laughter
Blue fades from the sky
Red lifelines run high
Holding on to white bars
Gun spirits won't die
Bloodstains on a field of stars
Tears roll from my eyes
They love the powder
The smell of smokes curl
Mom's love their children
Reading that last text from their
Baby girl "don't cry"
They love the
The status and valor
Dad loved his son to death
And buried him next to grandma
They love the power
Full action
Machine God-given Sputter
Reporters console the grieving families
One after another
They love the Second Amendment
Closer than marriage
On a scroll that they worship
Rebrand and misinterpret
Some sad excuse nationalists
They think they are a patriots
Blue red and white
Sister lost her closest friend
To America's discharge
Guns for the fight
Against the innocent
We have lost the will
We have hit rock bottom
Brother dear brother
Stars fall from the half flags
How many dead?
Seems Gun spirits won't die!
Cause they love their
Hot Metal...
As much as cold bodies.
Those that feel the pull and feel the responsibility to their fellow human beings aside from our country will rise to the occasion. Laugh in the face of ignorance. No more tiptoeing and pandering to apologists. Everyone has an idea of how others should live. We need to draw the line at pain.
Kauthar Jul 10
You make it difficult
You make it difficult for me
to get air through my lungs
I struggle
I struggle to breath when I am with you
My last breath will be wasted on you
Even though it means the world to me
But you mean more than the world
Aa Harvey Jul 7

Come hold me tight, never let me go;
It’s not my time to end the show.
Surely one encore, do I have left?
Surely one dream do I have, with you to share?
Surely there’s time, for me and you,
To conquer the world and fly to the moon.

Let’s wish away, our last hopes and dreams,
To help us erase our bad memories.
To start a new life, with joy and pain,
To feel the sunshine, once again.
To once more splash, in puddles of acid rain;
To find a new faith and our memories of love regain.

Do not give up; your heart is still beating.
The time has not yet come, for you to be leaving.
You are still alive, you can keep on dreaming;
You can find the power, to breathe again.

So pick yourself up, it’s only a flesh wound.
Fight for your life, before you become consumed;
By guilt and fear and a lack of hope.
I wish for another wish, to still be here tomorrow.

(C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Julian Delia Jul 7
This violent sadness,
A self-devouring source of madness.
It is an Atlantean endeavour,
It is pure, jaw-dropping terror.
It is this dense weight that I carry -
Snap out of it, hurry, do not tarry,
For my shoulders quiver
And my nerves grow tired and bitter.

Please, hurry;
Wake the fuck up.
We don’t have much time,
And up to the mountain’s peak
I wish to climb.
Do not delay;
Every moment wasted
Is an inch further towards necrotic decay.

Why could you never understand?
Why did you never want to cross into uncharted land?
Why the need to cocoon in one place?
Why did you resort to making me hate my own face?
This road, this journey that is life -
I will live it on the edge of a knife,
In between the worlds of peace and strife.
With the soles of my feet,
I shall run on burning coals, exposed to heat.
Within the corridors of my heart,
I will host freedom as my eternal mistress,
And make my life her work of art.

A sun that never quite rises,
After all this, I feel like a discoloured iris,
Like a struggling butterfly,
One that does not want to die,
But does not want to live, either.
I don’t know
Whether you’re lying to yourself or me,
But all I know is that of these hateful chains
I wish to be free.

I will now walk alone, towards the balcony,
Ready to jump and spread my wings;
I wish to fly alone,
For the skies have no queens nor kings.
I am who I am,
A soul, permanently on the lam
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
'Happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing I know.' - Ernest Hemingway
Dean Jul 1
For love

A million positions available


A curriculum vitae

Not perfect in its application


A labour of glorious returns
Labourious wonderful experience
Joshua Nai Jun 30
Is it as deep as the deepest point of the oceans?
Is it a wide as the sky could be?
Would it last longer than life?
Would it be longer than time?
Would it be stronger than anything in this world? In the whole Galaxy?
Would it be mine to keep?
Would it be theirs to keep?
Ours to keep?
It will be.
Yes it is.
All of it and more.
This love.
Slowly digging me out of this shell, to reach my heart.
Penetrating through fear, doubt, and sin.
You brought this broken life in.
I would never forget the love you have shown me at the lowest point of my life.
Forget about your love.
And the life you have given me.
For the life you gave.
On that cross
Thank you God.
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