my raspy
voice is
euphoria but
revere sole
of she
that rejoice
with spontaneity
and invariably
my unrehearsed
vocal is
flutelike always
depict its
comp as
discretion with
a valet
in Wodehouse
novels indirect
A song with soul
silence a bliss
lonliness no more a curse
calm, i have become

past just a tense
memories and stories
present, i have become

turning mistakes into lessons
profound logic in emotions
hopeful i have become

fighting desires
conquering fears
warrior i have become

filled with love
a tender touch
romantic, i have become

pen & paper my friends
words my expressions
a poet i have become

breath my rhythm
heart my drums
musician, i have become

harmonic feet & melodic arms
dancer i have become
pitch high & low
singer i have become

life my canvas
days paitning and nights sketching
artist i have become

living with a purpose
Appriciting the gift of life
a human, i have become !
silence is the key to unlock life in its purest.
Aa Harvey Apr 23
The Musician


I need a singer, to sing me a song;
Anytime of the day, I will need her love.
I need her beauty, to shine as she sings;
Or I need to hear her scream in sympathy.


My eternal sunshine, you look divine,
Beneath the light that shines, to show me your smile.
My love is yours to behold, my life.
I allow you to see through me; to see inside.


To see what is real;
Like the pain I feel without you near.
I wish this heart would pick a new career;
Because it is useless at love; it’s like me - a loser.


All I ask for, is you to sing a song I choose;
A rock song, a reggae number,
An indy tune, rap, comedy or something other;
Like a poem I wrote, after having a toke.
My poetry has rhythm, so any poem could become a song…almost.


But if you find a song of mine you like;
Take it within your soul, for the rest of your life.
For I shall always write another,
For it is my hobby, my job, my love, my career.
So I pray you hear the words I speak;
For one day I could write the words for you to sing.


If you understand me,
Then be with me.
Read all my poetry and songs…
If you want to know the real me.


(C)2011 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Abby Jo Mar 28
A green aura of envy
Apparent yet hidden simultaneously

Melodies flow and the music plays a delightful tune
Every stitch sewn by her maker was made with better wool than mine

Beyond the desired looks, their love is secure
Just one more thing to add to the list

In my arsenal you ask?
Broken poetry and unused words

Majority says nay
Minority says yay

Love around here has been suffocated
Plenty to share, none to myself

Loves taken a hiatus status
I’ve folded my hand.
Consistently dealt a 7/2

My cue to return to real life
Is when the water turns cold
whatever floats yer boat
paint a picture
sing a song
even write a note
just get out
and tell yer story
whatever floats yer boat

the message
is important
you could paint
it on a goat
just get out
and tell yer story
whatever floats yer boat

a writer sings
a painter paints
an author uses words
it's no good
unless the message
isn't seen or heard

keeping thoughts as secret
isn't good and here is why
because sharing brings them life
and otherwise they'll die

write a letter
do a play
or even bake a cake
the message
it is important
who cares what form it takes

say it loud
or scream it
even put it in a song
opinions
are for sharing
even if they're wrong

a writer sings
a painter paints
an author uses words
it's no good
unless the message
isn't seen or heard

keeping thoughts as secret
isn't good and here is why
because sharing brings them life
and otherwise they'll die

paint a picture
sing a song
even write a note
just get out
and tell yer story
whatever floats yer boat
Too damn drunk to play

I fell into a bottle
Four Presidents ago
looking for the hidden song
Just before a show

Once I thought I found it
I was in about half way
When I took the stage I found out
I was far too drunk to play

Every bottle has a song
somewhere deep inside
I haven't found one yet though
but, damn...i know I've tried

Each line upon my weary face
And scar upon my fingers
is the end result of searching for
the song that always lingers

If it isn't in one bottle
in the next it may be there
so for now, i'll just keep searching
for the song that isn't there

there's songs in other places too
too dark for me to go
some find songs inside a needle
those aren't songs I want to know

I come by my songs honestly
my scars show I've looked deep
But, when I'm almost there and see it
That's kinda when I fall asleep

when I'm sober, I can't find them
once I'm drinking, then I hear
The song calling from a bottle
I'm like an alcoholic seer

I know I'll find the right one
And it just may be today
I only hope I find it
Before I'm too damn drunk to play

I only hope I find it
Before I'm too damn drunk to play
Kathleen Rose Mar 13
We both know I ain't a poet
& I sure as hell can't sing
But I do it 'cause of you, man
Yeah, I do it 'cause of you

I write these stupid words
I sing these shitty songs
& I do it all for you, man
Yeah...I do it all for you.
When you don't even have to think, and it just finds its way out.
Some folks pluck a cherry and some folks poke a peach.
I like to choose the far out fruit that others fail to reach!
for~
I’m a swinger;
I like to swing from tree to tree,
I’m a swinger;
Would you like to swing with me?
We could go out on a limb, tie up Sue and Jim,
If you want to swing then come and swing with me.

We can swing all night and could swing all day;
Till the birds and bees come out to play!
Just sing this song and swing along with me.

I’m a swinger;
I like to swing from tree to tree,
I’m a swinger;
Would you like to swing with me?
We could go out on a limb, tie up Sue and Jim,
If you want to swing then come and swing with me.

Yeh!
We can swing all night and could swing all day;
Till the birds and bees come out to play!
Just sing this song!
and swing along
with me!
X
A cheeky swinger song!
https://youtu.be/62Twaodb0gI
Ezzah Saleem Feb 22
A poet hidden in a singer,
A singer hidden in a poet,
Under the grey skies,
On a land of snow,
Her lamp almost burned,
She wrote,
She was a poet,
But she sang too,
She sang her melancholic pieces of poetry, carved on wood,
She sang lullabies with her words, on torn dirty papers,
On a broken seat, with a dusty piano,
She bagan to play with the waves of notes, pushing her tired fingers, against the keys.
Afraid she was because she thought she was imperfect,
But some imperfections are beautiful and wonderful, she did not know that.
Her pain gave her words birth,
Her fears raised her words,
Her regrets made her sing,
Her beautifully written  poetry,
Not too strong, and not to powerful,
With a little voice, with a little hope,
A girl who was afraid to speak,
The one who was afriad of herself,
Invaded the universe.
With her unheard voice,
With those unspoken words.
An unexplained series began,
When her shaky voice sang her old lost lullabies,
And her soul lifted her voice up,
Her body still shaking.
But not quitting,
She wrote and wrote and sang and sang.
On sunsets, on oceans, on skies , on rain,
She wrote her heart out by singing with her soul.
No one has to be perfect. We have so much inside us that we don't know. Maybe because we are too aftaid.
Next page