What is it I wonder you don’t want us to see
that you don’t want included in the story
do you think just because
your big smelly marker says
permanent ink that it
can cover up history
Why are you so scared
that someone might care
about the true version
of how the past
should be told or how
the future might unfold
Did you think with a stroke
you can cross out the hopes
of generations
who came and went
or maybe prevent those
who have yet to dream
their dreams
Just because you erase the words
does not mean
we can’t be heard
because we can scream louder
than you can whine
we’ve done it since
the beginning of time
And let your hands slide on the paper,
and sometimes forget a grammar or points on the end of sentences.
It helps you to let out your thoughts.
To let out your words.
Yeah they don't know of who I am talking about,
But the people who I have meant,
Do read me like their favorite videos of pewdiepie,
They will see and know.
Will I cross out words with a Red pen then?
Or write with strength?
To make the paper,
rip off by itself?
Why do I try to excuse you when you-
,,Her poster is too much, our's better because we can just openly talk"
He just says it because he is mad-
How can someone be so jealous?
Why do I try to excuse you when you-
I left the toilet, my eyes look still glassy and my toungue tickels my gum.
,,Adna!", after I heard you call my name,
I didn't bother to look and ran towards where I was going to.
Does he want to apologize or make things-
Ah, he *definetly* wanted to tell me that his bestfriend got my back and packed my things
Why do I try to excuse you when you-
,,Here, your things, I packed them for you"
,,Thanks", he observes the interaction between me and his bestfriend right now.
Did he came on the stairs because he really wanted to-
He *definelty* waited for his bestfriend to come.
Why do I try to excuse you when you-
,,Is really everything alright?"
,,Yeah, just headaches"
Why does he stand next to him does he-
His bestfriend *definetly* begged him too.
If I could just cross out *definetly*,
I wouldn't need to ignore you to just be sure,
that I am not being kind but also not rude.
Because I really don't know,
what you are going to think, mean, express too.
Jesus Christ life Began at Conception in his Mother's Womb, After His Death He was Placed in a Tomb.
He Died For our sins on the Cross out of Love,
Now he is Seated at the Right hand of God our holy father in Heaven Above.
The Son of God Was Homeless with nowhere to lay his head, After He was Crucified and took his last Breath the soldiers Poked him with a spear to make Sure he was Dead.
As We Celebrate This Holy Easter Season,
Let's Remember For God so loved the world that he gave his one only begotten Son to save us is the Reason
My life was my book,
every word scribbled onto the pages were
memories in my mind, every letter was a choice I decided to make
and every page turned was a new day full of old experiences,
it wasn’t a printed book, It was handwritten,
perfect for me to chaotically scribble every
mistake I made and cross out the things
I didn’t want to remember.
But no matter how many lines were crossed
over the thin sheet it was never enough
to erase them,
so I decided that I’d had enough.
My book hadn’t been finished but I was done with remembering,
I’d closed the chapter and told myself I’d never
look at that ink again,
because I was afraid if I smudged it, it’d be left on my skin forever.
My computer's my friend
more so than my pen
With lightning-fast fingers
thoughts needn't linger
I can change my mind
with the tap of a key
No need to erase or cross-out
and that's fine with me
Some long for the days
of paper and pen
Bobbies on bicycles
the chimes of Big Ben
So let them long ~
I'll type my song
to silky-smooth speed
not written but keyed
I wish I had a twentieth of the confidence of
My muse name of Trixie sent down from above
If you want a picture, it is okay with her
She is always in pose position; self-confidence a whirr.
She sits by the beach thinking up new stuff to write.
I have tried to disagree, but she always wins the fight.
Her imagination prances in and out of my brain all the time.
She demands her own way, and it is usually quite fine.
She is petite and pretty, attractive to both women and men.
She claims she is tri-sexual, so that is where I must begin.
She is a lively little intelligent bundle of wow from her head to her feet.
She insists on her own way, and frankly, her way cannot be beat.
Once upon a time I would try harder to get my own way.
I would cross out and scribble and change words all day.
But in the end, it seems like I always relented, coming soon back
To the way Trixie wrote the poem in the first place
with full-blown-muse confidence I often lack.
If I knew what I wanted
I would go for it
I’d make plans
I would go to the shop and buy lots of different coloured pens
I would make lists on lined paper?
I would write my name clearly and underline it, twice!
I might even put the date on the corner?
I would look at it and cross out some things?
I would think about bullet points?
And when I typed it up I would choose an awesome font?
If I knew what I wanted?
Rambling
History is anything that has already happened.
The future is anything that will, or could, possibly happen.
The present time does not exist, it is already gone;
Not even a chance to place a full stop,
As existence is constant, evolution permanent.
All stupid questions have never been relevant.
Living a life of apathy is not a God send.
It hollows me to not care about pleasing others.
Write the words that make you happy in the end.
Paint my dot-to-dot with any colours.
In front of you all stands a giant wall.
A barrier between us to save me when you fall.
Now is the time to draw a line under what I have said.
Cross out your anger,
As your picnic hamper is glowing red,
From all the second cheapest wine you could order;
So casual this disorder.
You think you exist, therefore you do not.
I have already lost everything that you think you have got.
I didn’t miss a single thing.
All I want is for you to say something.
(C)2019 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
"Thou art That" (Chandogya Upanishad 6.8.7 of the Sama Veda)
You wanna know what’s something you are not?
It is that easy. Take a piece of paper,
divide it into two parts with a pen,
entitle the left side as “I”, the right
one – “It” and then think twice about who
you are. A mate? A son? A spouse? A father?
Etcetera. Write down them on the left
and think again. What’s It? A pen? A paper?
The writing table you are sitting at?
The house you’re living in? Write down
them all on the right side and then cross out
the features which are neither You nor It.
Is “I” of you entirely determined
by features “man”, “taxpayer”, “citizen”?
Cross features out. Cross out everything
that’s not the real Itness which includes
all sets of Its throughout the universe,
reducing both lists until just “I”
and “It” remain. Read the result aloud...
Hm, I am It. The rest is I am not.
01.08.2019
Something I Am Not Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: craig cornish
The record plays -
sounds of love; words that touch the heart.
I reach for you with all my being
and, finding I still cannot touch you
I sit down to cover paper with my song to you.
A piece of paper - starchy white with tiny, symmetrical
blue veins running across.
An impersonal piece of paper that obligingly holds my
ink-blotched words so that I may gaze at them
and wonder at their lack of saying
what I mean to say.
I run my hand across the page and wish it were you I was touching.
I wish each quiet scratch of the pen on parchment was
the sound of your voice.
And, because not the page nor the words nor the sound is you -
I cross out everything I've written, crumple the page and
throw it away.
The room is silent now. The record has quit turning.
The needle is in its cradle.
And I find that tonight I have no song. Not on paper.
Only within me.
And, tomorrow, I'll again reach out to touch you.
writing is daydreaming on paper or sometimes straight into a computer.
notes crossed out, smacked around, slashed, re-visited, starred, circled,
checked, underlined, slashed out again, retrieved.
after print has happened, it all begins anew. I count the syllables,
make six hundred tally marks on the page, slash out, cross out, circle,
write OKAY in big letters, draw arrows, put Xs, start rearranging.
Using 1, 2, 3, and A, B,C, as I valiantly try to figure out where
the next line is going, or whether to even keep it.
I sit down to figure it out, and decide it will be easier to begin
again, rather than edit what has already been typed. So I begin again,
slashing, dashing, drawing, starring, circling, smacking, cracking,
discarding, resurrecting.
the life of this writer.
"Impossible" is just an illusion. Cross out the first two letters
Date written and posted: 04/16/2018
I still write with pencils--
and have learned not to erase; just to lightly cross-out,
saving my edits for another frame of mind.
Life is not only forward but sometimes back...
like old friends and people who helped me
to the next rung on my ladder.
My first love.
some words shouldn't be said
like wishing someone dead
and all those words of hate
will make hate inflate
there's too much anger
for this head banger
back when Quiet Riot was big
I was partying like a pig
never mind using your fist
cross out fighting from the list
hand shakes and greetings
at twelve steps meeting
it cleared my head some
and gave me freedom
Related Poems