She is a clear vibration of a violin string tight with tension, shivering in song, singing in pain.
She is a dustmote dancing in the dusk sparkling in dullness, joyful even at the end.
She is the warmth of an old flannel blanket passed down through generations until it's softer than a kiss.
She is the shine of a lucky penny in your pocket.
She is the cool of a breeze in summer sweat.
She is class.
She is kindness.
She is the Singing One.
She is my friend.
I noticed something was wrong when I stopped singing. This was my outlet, my way of expressing all of my feelings. Everything I had ever thought was brought to life by song. Then I stopped, and it was all your fault. No song seemed to describe how I felt about you. I liked you. I hated you. I adored you. I cursed you. But most of all, I loved you.
So I started writing. To cover up my feelings with metaphors and similes that nobody but me understood.
I've thought about showing you these writings. I knew you would understand them. You were so much like me. You knew my thoughts better than I did. But I was scared. Scared to show you how I felt because like you with the world, I was scared that you wouldn't accept me.
When I became aware of this, how I felt, I became distant. I didn't want you to see how I had grown to love you. I knew you would. You were like me. You knew something was wrong and when you asked me about it, I avoided you even more. This hurt me so much more than I think it did you.
I stopped singing. This one dead spark is what lit up a whole new world of mysteries and confusion about you and me alike. That was it. One simple thing.
I stopped singing.
i saw a young black man
singing his heart out today
in the parking lot of an overused grocery store.
he was singing and singing
but no one would listen.
i myself just kept walking by.
i saw a women walking a goat
in the apartment complex behind my house.
she waved at me
but i was more concerned about the black man
in the parking lot of a fancy grocery store,
all by himself.
If my heart could rip apart and make a song for you
I would have enough to make the words using scissors and glue
And each piece of my heart would drip, not with blood, but passion warm like June
I only pray whoever sang wouldn't fail to be in tune
The rhythm would no be from a heartbeat, but in the steps I take
Each of which go through hill and dale to see that love, they make
The pace is good, the timing now, you wait for me to sing
But not until you know this song intimately through it's recipe
And I would give you all these things if you'd only give it a voice
A melody that flows and winds, laughs and cries, a choice
To dedicate to such a song until our dying day
And with the combined bits of separate hearts, a song would be played
Like a scientist in his lab
and an artist at his easel,
singing feels so natural to me.
Shaped phrases and the building crescendos
swirl into a cacophony of sound
that gives me euphoria.
The blending and bending of harmonious voices
call out to me saying,
"This is passion."
I will never stray from this passion of mine.
I love to sing
And that's not a bad thing because
I have my mothers voice
I live because of singing
I have had moments in my life
When all I couldn't function
Without music ringing from my throat
Many people have told me that I sing well
And I take it to heart
I enjoy bring people pleasure
Though my music