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Ananya Bansiwal Nov 2018
You're my energy,
with which I let myself be happy.
You're my sleep,
with which I can let myself be at ease.

Your presence makes me feel glossy,
Your absence finds me gloomy.

With you,
My ugliest version is perfect.
But
Without you,
My perfection is imperfect.

It is just that,
With all the time,
I have been with you,
You've entered all my senses,
Giving all your happiness to me,
You've made me know,
We can weep and smile together.

You mean still more to me. ❤️
With this pen, I paint an image of you.
Not a portrait, but a true portrayal of you.
The ink flows into words that dance across your hair.
The end of each sentence marking a cross that you bear.

A painting would be suitable for some.
With beautiful colors, cascading down on you from above.
But, those colors mearly hide the truth behind your smile.
With the right shade of light and a light smear, it becomes a cosmetic fix for a while.

My words flow through every crack and fill every shadow.
They bring all light to the surface, for the reader to see within the shallows.

The image of you that I create can be vivid and great.
But with this pen, my words can also design your fate.

You see the truth here is that my words hold all truth.
They leave no place for lies to hide, with each word holding proof.

In the readers eyes, my words are you…
With this pen, I can create you…
With this pen, I can finish you...

- Brandon K. Stephenson
The underestimated writer and the power within his pen.
Aa Harvey Jul 2018
Poetry is dead


We’ve had a good life together, but all things end.
I know I couldn’t be, but I tried to be your friend.
All the thoughts that I had in my mixed up head,
They are yours to keep now.  Poetry is dead.


Nothing left for you to criticize.
Watch me smile as you question my lies.
Give it time and the fire inside will die.
The light is fading, more and more, all the while.


Passion is gone, because love is a bore.
I believed more than you ever did, but no more.
The time has come, this love is done.
I can no longer run and catch the sun in my ***** hands anymore;
Because I am so bored and high flying birds do nothing but fall.


Standing before a ten foot brick wall,
With no will left to break through an imaginary door.
It does not exist, because I am not a kid;
I do not write it, so it does not exist.
I no longer open my mind to doors.
You walk through me like I used to matter, once.


Red light, stop sign, dead end view.
Words are done, give me a gun,
Are you sure this love is bullet proof?
What does a green and black cat in a dream mean?
I was at work at the electrical shop and all the while I was sleeping.
We were having a meeting and the cat sat on my lap
And while they talked and talked, the cat was suddenly gone,
And that was that…


(C)2018 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Anya Jul 2018
Before I realized it
I began writing for the readers
Not completely
But
Through little things
I avoided long
Too much rambling
Uninteresting
I subconsciously
Diverged towards
Topics I believed would catch my readers attention
Still involving my emotions
Yet
With bias
Which begs the question
Who am I writing for
Truly?
Luis Valencia Jun 2018
To,
To the man who stole my innocence
Kiss my ***

To the men who think its okay for them to ask me to expose myself for their pleasure
Kiss my ***

To the conservative women out there who think *** is unpleasurable
Leave your husbands

To the men who can’t please their wives take ******

To the old ladies who feed the stray cats of my hometown
Live like you’re young agaun

To the children who still dream never lose your minds

To those who are reading this keep pushing you are worth it.
....yeah kind of not sure what this is...
Aa Harvey Jun 2018
Give me a reason.


One poem a day; that is my goal.
I must write something each night or day and show you my soul.
My collection of written words will never be whole,
For it is constantly expanding, as I continue to grow old.


I hope I am worthy of doing this well,
For my poetry is my love and I have many stories to tell.
I will speak of fantasy worlds I dream up inside my mind
And speak the truth whenever necessary, to make the words rhyme.


If you like what I write, then give me some encouragement;
If you have apathy to my poetry,
Then seek another to give your mind its nourishment.
If you take offence at something I have written,
Then I apologise.  That is not what I meant,
To do; all I wanted was to show you how I feel,
About that particular subject and now my vessel is spent.


Each poem is unique and should be judged by its own content,
Not compared to another and held up in judgment.
I shall forever write poetry,
For I shall forever seek and gain enlightenment.


I am love, I am fallen,
I am many faces of many men.
I am man, I am woman,
I am myself and many others.
I am right, I am wrong,
I am the son of my mother.
I could end up becoming your lover,
But I shall never proclaim to be anything more than I am; my reader.


You are a part of my life now; you have peered into my mind
And I do hope you have had a nice time reading my lines.
I must find a way of getting my mind and body to conspire;
So I set myself goals to strive for, to keep me inspired.


I motivate myself to continue to write,
By wishing to improve all the time and searching for that next line.
It’s hidden in my mind somewhere,
I just have to find it.
My next goal is to write my thousandth poem
And I have my eye on it.


This will feed me the fuel I need to write another poem
And to each of you I shall continue showing,
How I feel at the moment the poem is created.
My thoughts shall forever evolve,
But my lust for writing shall never be sated.
Only seventy five to go now to reach my next goal.
One poem at a time, I am getting closer to satisfying my ego.


(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Aa Harvey Jun 2018
Cellar Door


The word cellar door, may paint a cold, dark image,
But the two words together, are simply magnificent.
They roll off the tongue, like a red silk carpet
And when you find something so beautiful,
You should not forget it.


For cellar door, I simply adore,
For it's a connection of words, that are simply beautiful.
Two words together, that when spelt right have a meaning,
But when they are separated and you see them differently,
You are able to see, why they contradict each other;
For cell keeps us trapped, we can't run free from this evil,
But to adore is to love, the purest of feelings;
The thing that can't be beaten, with an English Dictionary,
Or a thoughtless, harsh word, from a fool in the audience,
Who will never see or hold such beauty,
For they truly are ignorant.


These thoughts are my own;
But I was inspired to write this poem.
If you missed Donnie Darko
And don't know where I got this inspiration,
A teacher with passion, spoke the words cellar door
And explained they were her, two favorite words of all.


So remember cellar door, for it simply means love;
Don't let them lock away your feelings, behind a cell door
And keep them buried, so no one can see your love show.
Don't hide from your feelings, for it will serve you no good.
Will you choose to be trapped inside your cell?
Or applaud me, for I saw what is plain to see
And I am willing to tell.


Cellar door sounds fantastic and when it is spoken by a lover,
You shall see its true meaning, simply means I love you forever.
Together we are happily trapped, in this notion called love,
But we are free to be free,
For we have the key to this cellar door.


(C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Aa Harvey May 2018
Insight


Some people write their poetry in the shadows.
Some people seem to like what I write;
But if everybody reads my poetry and stays hiding in the shadows,
How can I know what is right without a little insightful advice?


(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Connor Apr 2018
She sits in a
Room by herself.

Her dad's at a bar, cheating
While mom is getting high.

After dinner
She hears them
Fighting again.

She covers her ears
Hoping it ends soon.

She hears him slap her.
She hears mom's whimpers.

Footsteps are storming
Up, up the stairs,
Getting closer.

They stop.
They have gone to bed angry.

A nice man picks her up
From school the next day.

He gives her sweets,
A warm blanket, and
Even a coloring book.

He takes her to a
Strange building.

He sweeps her off her feet,
And strolls into the building.

As it turns out,
He was a policeman,
Her parents were arrested.

Her dad looks at her
His eyes glassy.

Goodbye, they say.
She never saw them again.

She loves her new home
Where she is loved
And never forgotten.
A story about an neglected little girl. I bet you guys thought she got picked up by a ****, huh? That's what I was aiming for :)
Brent Kincaid Mar 2018
Please consider, when reading my poetry
It is poetry, it's not always autobiography.
I have a gift, to zip back and forth in time
And then to render that journey in rhyme.
I tell what I felt then and sometimes connect
It to the world today, to let you see correctly
What it has meant for me to be the real me
And to let you understand the me you see.

I feel that is my job, a journalist in rhyme,
Sometimes to paint pretty fantasies, and
Often to paint thoughtful pictures of what
I have come so solidly to understand.
I may tell of a time that hurt so much
That I set it down on paper to assimilate
A better outlook and to remember it all
So to learn before it becomes too late.

Sometimes I publish a piece to read
That someone is heartbroken for me
Because they are sweet enough to care
I might be going through a sad reality,
When the portrayal I made that worried
And shook them about my rhyme
Is a story from decades ago, a tale
That comes from a much earlier time.

If I learn this has happened, I tell
The truth about that instance
And make them feel better for it
When and if I might have the chance.
So, thank you my loving readers
For taking the time to even care.
I write to make an effect on you
But never, ever meaning to scare.
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