***, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll.


Staring at you, wanting to be you,
Wondering how did you become so deep and in tune,
With my thoughts and my feelings and how did you make me feel?
What you were trying to say with your words and with your sounds?
Who really is the real you?  Reach me and help me find a heart to steal.
You are lifting me up by bringing me down
And every word you say to me is so real.


Rock-a-bye baby on a tree top;
Don’t do drugs, just because South Park rocks!
There’s a rat in my kitchen and he won’t stop singing;
Poppa don’t preach at me because I won’t become a part of your flock.


This poem is for all those who are about to rock!
When the wind blows the cradle will rock
And baby will raise her Devil’s fingers and say “What’s up?”
The God of drugs is the answer to the reason for everything we forgot.


Here comes a blonde bombshell, knocking on my door;
Who knows what she has come here for?


(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.

The wooden doors swing open, creaking as they do.
Books litter the walls, tables, and chairs.
Bestsellers filled with politics, celebrities, and dieting.
The "Classics" eisle is all but abandoned.
Shakespeare, Steinbeck, The Bronte Sisters, and more.
Books filled with elegant phrases, heartbreaking last words, and timeless prose.
I run my fingers along their spines, walking past the gravestones.
Reaching the music section, I smile and wander forward.
So many memories to be found.
Mozart, Beck, Chopin, Hendrix, the list goes on.
So many artists here, preserved through a dead medium.
CD's no longer hold a special place in the world, along with the books housed nearby.
As I walk to the entrance, now an exit, I see rows of newspapers.
Yet another reminder of times gone by.
Staring at the building, about to enter my car, I realize something.
This place is a graveyard for old things.
While the world has moved on to Kindles, iPads, and mp3s, this place has not.
That's why I'll come here until the day it to, is buried.

I am not an artist
I cannot paint a beautiful landscape that makes you believe you're looking at the real thing.
You will not stare in awe as you wonder what compelled me to paint those lines so uneven
And I can't make my color choices dance in your eyes like sugarplum fairies
Off of the canvas and into your mind
For you to transpose the choreography
To your own understanding

I am not an artist
I cannot capture a single moment in time with the simple click of a camera.
They say a picture is worth a thousand words but every shot I capture seems to be silent
Mute
But they're beginning to be heard
Screaming millions of words
Hoping someone will just hear one

I am not an artist
I cannot make your skin shiver as my lyrics echo through the room
Your emotions will not crescendo as each note burns nostalgia in your memory
And I will not leave you wanting to hear more

I am not an artist
And I can't create a masterpiece in two hours
I can't write words that will break your heart as they enter your ears and fill your soul with the emotions I'm feeling
I can't make you believe that I'm actually the character
I tried so hard to become at rehearsals for the last three months
My movements on the dance floor dont flow with ease or grace
And you will never give me a standing ovation
Or shower me with roses as you cheer for the art I've created.

But
With every step that I take on this earth
I am leaving brush strokes in the dirt and in your memory
Every laugh
every sob
every word that I speak
Is going through your ears for your own musical enjoyment
My eyes are like cameras capturing every moment and every face each time my lashes flutter
And even though most of we don't have photographic memories
We still remember the precious moments our personal cameras caught on film

I am not an artist
I am art