caitlin 8h
I ate the yellow paint to make me happy.
I want to smile again
The people around me were worried about my colour lacking face.
So every morning, as the sun rose, I drowned my unsaid words in yellow paint. The colour was brought back to my cheeks, and everyone said that i was glowing.
I started eating the yellow paint day and night, to brighten my dreams. Yellow paint for breakfast lunch and dinner.
No one complained.
Except for my stomach, lungs and heart.
The yellow paint made my outside looks better, but slowly destroyed my inside. You see, yellow paint is poison, no matter how bright.
So it slowly killed me, but everyone said I looked alright.
Alyssa Underwood Jan 2016
I would have taken the easy path
But that would leave no room for glory
I would have picked out a comfortable life
But that isn't God’s kind of story

I would have followed a prettier road
But missed the most beautiful way
I would have clung to familiar things
But lived out my days in the grey

I would have chosen what’s stable
But grown cold, apathetic and bored
I would have sought out earth’s riches
But lost all that in heaven is stored

I would have liked more successes
But not learned so quickly of grace
I would have seen myself praised more
But given up knowing God’s face

I would have tied all my loose ends
But not known it’s He Who brings peace
I would have wanted for happier times
But traded a joy that can’t cease

I would have opted for normal
But not tasted rare delicacies
I would have preferred a man’s love
But been robbed of Divine intimacy

He’s chosen for me the high road
More jagged, more narrow and steep
So now I must travel this difficult way
Ever knowing it leads to the deep

Now I must choose to cherish His path
And trust Him to walk with me there
Now I must hasten to take up my cross
The fellowship of His sufferings to share

For one day this life will be over
And all my afflictions will end
It is then I will see what all this is for
In my Bridegroom, my Savior, my Friend
Aa Harvey 17h
To My Wife: The Love of My Life.


This is a poem written in two thousand and eleven.
This shall start the count down, to the day I find my Heaven.
If by the end of my life, I never found a wife to lay in bed with;
Then consider my life a waste,
For every wish of love never did become real…
It only became a myth.


The story of the peasant boy,
Who became a hero.
He slayed all his demons,
Even though he felt like a zero.


He believed in true love,
From the second he was conceived.
He found an illusion of what love was,
In his magical bag of needs;
But this was just a substitute,
To help him live without love.


He loved many things throughout his life,
But everything he could ever have hoped for,
He found in His Wife.


Everything else that he had ever felt love for,
Always came second to the bliss he felt,
When he felt he was loved by His Woman.
His one and only Woman…
For I am Your Man.


So Wife of mine, the real star that shines here.
Take a bow and show them how beautiful you are;
For I am so lucky to have met a woman like (…)
So this poem I dedicate to my one true love…
I love you (…)


One day I shall sing her praises,
For she is the one, who has forever been my biggest wish.
A Wife who loves me and does not lie;
Someone who can be true to me, even if I think it’s a good line.


It’s my poem, I don’t have to write it your way.
Shortly after, we’re both naked
And I’m writing whatever she says.


My Wife I love you, lolz, I said it first.
I love you!  I shall blow you our first kiss.
You are truly perverse,
To fancy an ugly git like me.
Yeah, I found her in the asylum, she claimed to be E.T.


So I gave her my number and she gave me a call.
I told her I wasn’t interested
And she told me to go take a running jump!
I could tell it was love, because she kept telling me off;
So I kissed the telephone
And put the phone down, without saying “Goodbye My Love.”
She rang me straight back to complain of course…
And now a few years later, I have finally proposed…


She didn’t know I was in the pub that night,
She had been telling her friends, how she wanted to be my Wife.
So they gave me a call
And I heard her talking on her friend’s phone.
I didn’t want her to see me,
Getting out of the car…before I proposed.


She was sat outside the pub, in the beer garden;
So I snuck up behind her, while her friends kept her talking.


Her best friend stood behind me,
Holding a huge cardboard sign;
It simply read : ‘Will You Marry Me?’…
I Love You.  You are My Life.
I was down on one knee, with a ring in my hand.
Just in front of my girlfriend,
Asking her, to allow me to become Her Husband.


She looked a little shocked, as I announced my desire to her,
In front of everyone, when I had always been scared.
But when my words had been spoken,
Every syllable of the proposal checked,
She said “I Will” and I nearly fled.


What have I done?  I must be out of my mind!
Oh wait.  No I’m not.  Look at her…Is she really going to be mine?
No, surely not, this broad is damn hot!
This Goddess of Love, wants my ugly bod?
Ok then yeah, let’s rock ‘n’ roll.
You’re beautiful and You love Me, so let’s elope.


The Ceremony of course was perfect.
Nothing is allowed to go wrong for my beautiful Princess.
This Queen of my Heart, my life has truly blessed;
So for Her, I shall pull down the stars from space,
If that is what she should wish?


My fortune, fame, kingdom, pain…
I would give it all up for Her, for she has given me life again.
The Woman of my protection, my enchanting masquerade;
I have the most beautiful Wife…
She is my Angel; my saving Grace.


You compare to no-one,
Yet you outshine everyone.
You are The One, My Wife, My Life,
You are the reason I was born.


To offer you my love and anything you want me to give.
Everything I have ever done, stands invisible once you are seen.
My blinding light, that makes other Goddesses become mortal.
Angels fall from the sky to become human,
Once you have been thought of.


One second without you;
One thought, one mention,
Makes my mind split in two,
I love it when we share each others attention.


My Life is here, her name is (…),
We have been married a long time now; it’s (… …)
I know her thoughts, because she is the same as me.
Just one crazy, mixed up, fool for love, humane being.
But she is much more than ‘Just …’ could ever be.
She is Just! And Loving! And Damn!...She is Fit innit!


Love you Babe, I am your Love Slave.
Here whenever you need anything, until I go to the grave.
But you must go first…
When you are Seven Hundred and Fifty Eight;
I think by then, my sex drive would be worn out
And then Heaven awaits.


We can both, by then, have read my finished books;
We can defy immortality and go to Heaven to show them  
My True Love.
You saved Me, from Me somehow;
So to you I simply hand my destiny now.
This is for you, for you are My:
Wife…


My Life,
My Heart,
My Soul,
My Destiny,
My Future is now in our hands now,
For you are My Everything.


My Eternal Love.
My Eternal Promise;
My everything I give to you,
For You made Me become Us.


My Love,
My Marriage Signature,
My Fate,
Our Fortune;
Our choice of Date.
Please I beg you…Do not be late.


My Wife,
My Beloved,
My (You other people can leave now, if you want to...)


I Love You,
I Love You,
I Love You,
Yeah You!


My Lover.
My Queen.
My Goddess!  You are Gorgeous!
My Damn Fine Ass Honey!
My reason to write this.


My, My, You do look beautiful in that dress.
I am yours forever…Oh I found this ring.
I guess it’s yours if you want it.  It’s kind of nice.
Sorry it’s not a diamond,
But people use Gold rings, not ice.


But it can be whatever your heart does desire;
I shall say, here are my life savings!
Go and buy whichever ring you wish,
For you are the fuel, that burns my eternal love fire.
The passion inside me, is yours now,
If you wish to make love my sexy siren.


You have given me this ring so I can show them my love for You.
I give you this ring, to show you how much I want You.
I will be your Husband, until this life is through.
Then I shall meet you again in Heaven, to welcome You.


If we have a kid or kids, don’t let me name them;
Get everybody’s opinion,
Then pick the one we both liked most, please.
If you like, we can have,
As many you want to.
As long as You are a Great Mother
And I’m what I think I could be too.


Some say I’d make a good Father,
Some would say I wasn’t good enough.
Anyone who knew me would know I would love nothing better,
Then to have a kid of my own.


But that is the future; or maybe it’s just a wish.
I shall write it here, all this time in the past.
Now I only think of the future.
And pray to the Wife I do not yet have.

I Love You.


(C)2011 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
L 22h
Meticulous and true. They are so careful. So skilled. Deftly and with a swift and sure hand, the words,    
Oh the words, they flow like a brooke. The one in the forest, you know the one. The one out there, out far. In the deep of the wood, over root, under canopy. Through the branches you have to look real hard. And the hard part is not knowing at all what youre looking for. And then there,    
After an eternity and in an instant it is there infront of you. What you have been looking for. A vast clearing. Wide and open. The sun glints through the salt-and-peppered leaf roof. It crawls and stretches and lightly caresses everything you lay your eyes on. Even matte mossy rocks, they seem to shine. You look down and it caresses you as well. Gentle and warm the embrace that you cant quite put your finger on. The location. The origin. It is everywhere, it surrounds you. Close your eyes. Embrace the sun back. But i digress my digression. The brook. It flows over, around, through. There is no stopping the water. It is relentless, it WILL get to its destination. You cannot change its mind. It is immovable.

That is what it is. It is beauty.

I know i should not compare. There is beauty in it all. But, goodness, the feelings invoked when reading others' poetry in admiration.
Brooke brook, glints?
Yeah my grammar. I break the rules sometimes. But im allowed to because i have learned them.
Lisa 1d
you used to bring me a blueberry muffin in a white paper bag every day from a bakery near your work
when i would bite into it
the blueberries would burst like little stars dying
i am ordinary, barefoot and head sunken in a fluid mountain of mousy hair
there was a day when the heaven's gate closed but i can't recall
a disheveled plastic container that held all of my belongings on the side of the curb
i held my bladder until the infection stood in front of me that sunny morning and told me to spit in the neighborhood's eye
when you kissed me i couldn't see anything but a mustache that felt like a sharp toothed comb in the bathroom i would sometimes bite when my compulsions got out of hand
my hand in the pocket of a jean jacket that smelled of old newspapers
that's how it is, you spend hours watching Bonanza and i never memorized their names but i knew your favorite was the one in all black
the back of my head being crushed because the guns would shoot but there was never any blood
and when the train station took me along with the wind
i knew that i loved you but it was just the kinda love that gets insects bites so you put lemon balm and never call them only think of them softly so as not to disturb your small body anymore
this is turpentine in a blender
‘There is no other name for anger
Than one’s own hatred and selfish plea
That schemes a wretched end to danger
And soldiers glad devils unto thee

There is no name for a fault
Than what you soldier to deny
Kept in your safest of vaults
For what’s in a name, but a lie?

There is no name for anguish
Than the heartbreak of solitude
Demanding soldiered languish
For a memory to conclude

There is no name that can ever compare
Than the name I have chosen to overlook
Once a soldier fervently in prayer
Abiding by all words of a simple book

There is no name I have ever known
Than one of insurmountable grace
For grace is a new brand on my bone
To soldier on the end of this race.’

As the child became a soldier
While the king still remained
With these thoughts, he sought out closure
And feared the king’s disdain

“Surely I will rise
And surrender unto thee
My soul as a prize
A steadfast soldier to be.”
This poem is a response to my former writing of: “Said the King to the Child”
When its emerald eye glimmers in the shadow of the dusty shelf above
I pause,
I sense a presense.

It is not unlike me to attribute human characteristics to inanimate objects.
Give them names and nicknames and quirky character traits based on how their forms bend.

In the flickering lights of a broke wicken sanctuary though, I do not do it out of habit.

I feel it and stare it back down and see my own reflection in the cracked gems that once were a soul.

A gaudy skull.

The kind you see in home video Indiana Jones tributes,
with hats stolen from someone’s parents,
and jackets stolen from someone else’s elder siblings,
and ketchup for blood.

The kind your quirky local manic pixie dream girl uses to hold incense.

The kind I’m about to waste my money on because I’m an adult now and I can use my millennial minimum wage however I want.

I do not become aware of the possessed nature of my new buddy until I take it back home and hear it snicker in the middle of the night.

I know it is the skull, for my roommate is not one to snicker.

(He chuckles when he’s hiding an opinion and has a villainous laugh when it’s coming from a place of sincerity, but that’s beside the point)

I know it’s laughing at me.
I know this for a fact.

It takes me three more nights to call it out on it because I’ve never been confronted with the issue of standing up to a haunted antique I took home from a secondhand shop, possibly owned by satan’s offspring.
But I’m twenty-one years old and still experiencing some firsts, I suppose.

The gaudy skull is exceptionally snarky.
In a way none of my named plants ever were.
Not even Gerard.

He comes for me for the garbage on the floor and the dust on the windowsill on which he’s propped up, and then later for my poor taste in chore-doing music.

I never ask for its name because I know for a fact he’ll make a game out of it
and I am not in the mood for entertaining ghosts.

I come to realise it all on my own a couple of weeks later.
Once the snark starts to wear off,
and domesticity settles in,
and shared quiet becomes comforting,
despite the circumstances.

It is Judas.

I know this for a fact.

You do not understand the extent to which I am certain that it is Judas.
I have never been so aware of someone’s origins in my entire life.
I bought this creepy item and it is now in my room and I’m developing a weird attachment to it and maybe occasionally use it as a paper-weight and it is Judas.

I feel it in my heart and know it inside of my skull that might be standing on someone else’s touchscreen windowsill
two thousand years in the future,
jade stones for eyes even though I specifically requested amber,
but you get fucked over by bureaucracy even after death.

How do I know it is Judas?

Because I feel him stare at me like he wants to kiss me late at night and sense him plotting my betrayal early morning.

I know it is that, for a fact, because I’ve felt this exact sensation before.

My damn edgy room decor is Judas.

I try to get him to admit it himself by talking of past lovers and reading aloud the surprising number of Jesus metaphor poems I have in my room.
I hate Jesus metaphors, but I do it for that sweet sensation of seeing someone trying to dodge the inevitable once it’s coming at them like a mule through Rome piloted by the son of god.

I know he’ll cave eventually and tell me
and I know it’ll be the same caliber of glorious news as Jesus coming out of his own cave of burial,
resurrected and preaching winning.
I know I’ll win.

And I think to myself that maybe I am in the mood to entertain and just haven’t found the right outlet yet.
Maybe history’s most infamous apostle is It.
The original sinner and the original rebel.

(I’m aware it’s technically Cain, the jealousy-ridden son of Adam and Eve, but I only ever count the gays)

Judas and I have bonded.

And I can tell he’s on the verge of telling me his dark and twisted backstory. Again, I have felt this sensation before.

And when it happens, we can talk
about what it’s like being demonised by the one you love
and being the odd one out in your devotee friend group, even though you eat bread and drink wine and worship metaphor just like them.
And how patriarchal institutions distort history to pedal the same tired spiel of everything having a place and everything being there for a reason.

But we both know that isn’t true
because neither of us feel like part of god’s plan or created in anyone’s image.

And we can listen to sad music about wanting to kiss the wrong people together.

And that’s all I ever wanted from a friendship.
Lisa 2d
i've hidden a note in an old library book that i never returned
i ripped the sleeve off and wrote my name in red permanent ink
it smells of oak wood and dust
i felt a warm guilt that i haven't felt since i was 8 years old
when my shoe slipped on dog shit
and i went into class with muddled shoes that smelled of underdeveloped intestines twisting
i think you would understand the embarrassment
the itching sting that my chest surrendered to when everyone asked where it was coming from
this particular note was written in a momentary relapse of admonition
an answer to a question that wasn't answered
will you look in the rubble, where i told myself to stop talking about god all the time
the moon never replied to my letters so i drank my weight in wine
and when i woke up the sender's address was swindled between postmen whose hands were too crooked to open the mails slots
is it poetry to talk about dog shit on your shoe
A stroll through meadows
Vibrant, hale and kissed with dew
My mind now wanders

My handmaiden, Essha
runs with news, of good tidings
My court has grown more

She speaks well of you
Of Kings and Queens who have come
From both near and far

How my eyes widen
as I now shed tears of joy
You all have my thanks.
180 FOLLOWERS!!!!!
AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
THHHHHAAAANKKKKK YYYYOOOOOUUUUU!!!!
REALLY, THANK YOU SO MUCH!!!!!
The worst part of writing with a quill
Is when the stories don’t flow no more.
After a point, there are no more secrets to spill,
Without sounding shrill and repetitive,
And falling to the floor, tired of this shit,
Trying to make your words sound ‘lit’,
While in fact just disappointing your readers
Just that little bit.
Just a fear of mine.
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