Finding oneself in the strangest of places
Losing oneself in the brightest moon phases
Giving forgiveness for everything
This is why the morning birds sing
Giving freely to those that cannot give back
Helping anyone get their life back on track
These are the beautiful and important things
And the reason hummingbirds sing
Selfless action and kindness in kind
Have no new purpose and withstand time
Every last action helps happiness ring
And every one helps the world to sing
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.
Something to sing about
Is the way your waterfall of hair
Cascades over your eyes
Falling betweenthe lines
That hang under them.
The lines that murmur more
Than tears ever could.
As well as your cautious breaths
That easily fade in and out
Not even close to being stripped from your lungs
And the way your smile still holds people at bay
When it shows, though rarely
How your face is nearly the epitome of perfection
In its imperfection
And how you’re as beautiful inside as out.
I sing because I like it, it is fun to do.
I sing out loud even though I'm not good.
I sing for myself and not for you.
I sing because it puts me in a good mood.
Don't make fun of my singing, it's not perfect I know.
It's not like I plan on auditioning for a show.
I sing for the heck of it, to please myself.
I sing for me and nobody else.
So I shall sing with pride, sing for all to hear.
I'll sing till I die 'cause it brings me such cheer.
If you don't like my singing then you're out of luck.
I'll be singing forever and you can't shut me up.
Today seemed like a day I should be silent.
The silence seemed so absolute, every small sound
My annoying voice would shatter such a perfect peace.
Perhaps a song.
If a song were to break out over this lake,
causing ripples in its surface,
clear and bright, that might be acceptable.
The silence their audience,
a brilliant song.
I wish it so, but I know my voice has not that song,
and in thinking so I find I've lost it altogether.
So I sit back, a supportive member of the audience.
So step up; we're listening.
We silenced wait for your beautiful lucid song.
Someone to save us from the silence we trapped ourselves in,
afraid to break perfection.
Someone to tell us that imperfection is something that's okay.
Your song can rescue us.
Your voice can come and let us sing again.
Let your music ring across this silence.
We'll rise up, a chorus of flaws, and be beautiful.
Set us free.
12am when you're sitting alone in the bathtub as frothy white bubbles rise all around you, ever so softly and gently crooning the notes to the rhythm in which your heart beats and your tears flow.
It's the times you push air out of your diaphragm and form your lips around words that for a moment,
make you feel better just a bit better about being alive-
It is comforting to produce music that will float beautifully in the broken air of this desperate world.
And singing with another person is one of the most profound emotional connections you can make with a fellow human. Your voices swirl, mix, and intertwine, in the air, unnerving in the way they so completely assimilate into each other.
A voice carries little pieces of you- ones that you inserted into the notes as they left your throat
And when that meets another's... You feel your stomach twinge.
Because for 2 minutes or so, your souls are connected.
Strange, isn't it?
Singing is standing in the acoustically glorious shower for 45 minutes listening to your sorrowful or joyful or nostalgic peals echo around the marble tiles and wondering, "Why the hell haven't I recorded an album yet?"
But it's also rejecting your friend's entreaties at sleepovers
"Come on! Sing! You're amazing!" Insisting that you are terrible.
Singing is being finally being forced to the front of the room after minutes upon minutes of badgering, submitting to one verse of your favorite song, you open your mouth and let the melodies flow out, terrified-
Feeling as if you are presenting your insides for inspection.
A sense of relief comes with the hush that descends upon your chatty friends
At least they’re not laughing
The song runs its course along with your courage,
And you return to your seat,
Ignoring complements that slide off you like raindrops on an umbrella.
Your heart bounces around the wall of your sternum,
fueled by throes of pride and embarrassment, almost in equal measure.
But most of all,
Signing is simply another way to let the you-infused air that permeates your soul and keeps it breathing
Spend more time out of the confines of your self-consciousness.
To let it linger produces stagnation.
Stagnation means finding release in other areas which means drugs and alcohol and creepy men in dark corners and eventually working the pole on Tuesday nights.
I would rather just sit in my warm bathtub
and belt my trembling little Soprano
heart out to Bohemian Rhapsody.