I don't understand. Are scars invisible? No? Then how come I have to tell people my story? My scars tell you everything you want to know about me. The way I walk, talk, how I dress. It's me. How I act. Everything I do should just scream what my life is like and what I have gone through. Sadly, people only look, they do not observe. If people would just take a few more seconds to really look at someone then they would truly know how to react and care for them. Not just let them fall back into their holes....

Yesterday, she caught her curves
in the center of her palms.
She cuddled the skin
and coddled the effort
that she put in
to make it shrink
but she still thinks
it made no difference.

© Matthew Harlovic

"Help me to understand what's so special to you about it", she said as she laid back on the leather love seat.

Alright, I'll try to give you a peak.

"Why not more than a peak, why not speak more of this art you like", She asked as she took a sip of her coffee.

Because my dear a peak is all you need.
It's all you must understand so that your body,mind and soul craves to feed.
It's not an art to me by the way, it's more like a way of life.
It's rhythm and soul drawn into a mesmerising canvas by the usage of words.
It's blood and sweat drawn from our hands inked into a piece of paper.
It's simply just Poetry.

I cannot define it.
However as much as I could put words out there would it ever be enough?

But Darling it is special to me because it brings me freedom.
It draws me away from the pain that drowns me in this world.
It allows me to pause for once in my life and see the world. To see our generation grow and unfold.
Poetry tells me to pause and admire what is around me, to stop and smell the freshness, the purity, the danger, the emotions all around me.
Poetry allows me to share what so many of us fail to do.
We keep moving with the motion that we forget to stop and admire.
We forget that we are humans and that we're not robots that are required to just move.
Poetry brings me back to reality at the same time it makes me feel as if I could break the laws of gravity.
Do you understand dear?

A porcupine doesn't have many friends
Due to the needles that stand up at the ends
No one really cares when a porcupine cries
No one is there to weep when one of us dies
No one ever approaches a hurt, sad porcupine
Can't even attract a drunk with a case of wine
No one wants to get close enough to start to care
No one, for a small porcupine, is ever there
Tears fall down their cute, small needled faces
No one ever pays any attention to their small cases
From place to place, we porcupines wander so slow
There isn't a warm welcome at any place we go
Seems like porcupines just can't please anyone

The grass changes shades
as the light peaks over the clouds.
It shimmers
as it catches each bead of water
on the blades beneath it.
So cold against my feet,
but warming to see a new day awaken.
I often wish we had physical cues
to our cleansing and preparation for each day. However, it is our lives
that reflect the continuous changes
we seek to build.

They stand embrace in each other's arms.
The wave crashes with force against the pier.
The couple look on.

Three friends sit at a coffee table each trying trying to tell their stories.
Stories of love, fights, those whom have inspired them.

A man runs by, earphones in his ears, dodging the various walkers.
Laughter ripples through the air as the three friends find something entertaining.

A pregnant couple walk by wondering how much longer till they meet someone whom they have been growing fond of.
An older couple ride by on their bikes, probably reflecting how 20 years ago what the world was like.

A waiter deals with the various orders hoping at the end of the day to get a huge tip.
A homeless man approaches those walking by begging for food.
Who would have thought he would have ended up where he is?

The friends continue to chat boasting of their lives and accomplishments.
I am watching the lives of others and here I am... sitting alone at a table having tea.

I wonder what they think of me?
Shame poor girl has no friends for a Sunday afternoon.
Or how can she be so brave to come and have tea alone.
Or is she waiting for someone...oooh let's wait and see if someone arrives.

No one knows my life as I don't know theirs.
I don't know where they come from, whether they are here at the beach in despair.
Whether hope rings in their ears.
Or maybe someone confesses their love to one another.
Or a bright business idea is struck up.
Or someone has come down to the beach to remember a lost loved one.

We are all so different. Have different wants and needs.
Different reasons being down at the beach.
So how can I judge? How can I assume?
I have no idea why each person came down to the beach.
As for me...I came to get out the house!

A yellow belly cardinal launches itself at my window
Pecks away at the old window pane,
Should I chase the intruder away?
Or should I make him the subject of my next poem
He became my inspiration, and I his adversary
It slurred whistled phrases calm my inner soul

After a while the pecking annoys my daughter’ cat
So, here I am compromising myself and not caring
Because I am about to compose a piece:
About war and peace: title
Fluffy and the **** bird
I took out my camera and zoom in on its beady eyes,
and realize that it was as blind as a bat

Teeth-chattering, tail going from side to side,
doing the war dance this **** cat,
A blind cardinal with a sweet melody
what more can I asked for, but to watch and learn
from the intruder, the spoil feline and the observer,

A yellow belly cardinal launch at my window
Pecks away at the old window pane,
Should I chase the intruder away?
Or let my daughters’ cat razz it?