If you really like music,
there is a tambourine in my chest
that is almost always shaking. Let's hang out
and study each other's octaves. The sound-waves
traveling in and out of our conversation - mostly out.
has been about figuring out if it's OK
for a musician to dream themselves magician
solely to disappear.
Baby, you and I are like sound waves
coming from opposite directions.
We modulate at the same frequency.
We both are building up our whole spectrum.
But, baby, when we meet...
When we meet we nullify a part of each other.
No matter how much we try,
if we don't change a bit of ourselves
we will never know the beautiful melodies we can create
Her poems are like
they can't help the shape they make
arcing, cresting, jagging scores into the sky then
into smaller crescendos and puddles
refusing to stay still
adamantly holding their shape then
Then it HITS, her thoughts
They rip through the message finally clear
not even sure how my brain processes
these tiny wave forms not really sure
how these shapes make me feel
not sure how the words
can drift into my head
and make me feel
it's simple really, nostalgia is buried in a melody
the same way humans are put in coffins--
deliberately heart-wrenching, a science.
an old transistor radio climbs lazily in the background,
buzzing, humming but then hear it--
blank stares as the road carries on, gradually,
slow mascara rivulets kiss cheeks like the intimacy long forgotten only to come rushing back--
songs that we said were ours were never ours to have,
an old familiar lyric that we claimed to spell destiny,
auditory memories that taunt and torture:
the chorus only instigates barbed thorns to lonesome hearts,
major chords aren't happy,
but cause discordance--
clenched fists on the steering wheel, you must pullover--
you can't pause or rewind, you can't stop--
yes, change the channel--
but the music still plays, and the riffs hang in your head,
remembered and reminisced over static--
but nothing is white noise when the final notes linger on your auditory palette,
the taste like the stare of a cold gravestone...
but even colder still,
the empty seat next to you.
music becomes mucus, leftover remnants
of bacterial infections that refuse to vacate
my brain no matter how many decongestants
i consume, those sound waves reverberate back
and forth and back and forth within my thick
ass skull and i am driven mad by memories
how to cut tender wires intricately woven into
the most simple mass of a mess you will ever see
i find myself muttering solutions in my sleep and
when i reach conclusions i'm already half awake
pen in hand, paper on chest, but ahh, it's gone, it's gone
my dream world holds more clarity than my walking
daze and i can only find the words for poetry, my
tongue and throat are revolting, refusing to take part
in walks down memory lane, fingers soon to follow suit
surf over all the old songs that you can no longer listen to and ride right through them as if the waves of sound don't scream in your ears, making them painfully ring. you don't deserve this, you just wanted to dip your toes in. but you ended up falling in, splashing, and drowning.
There are moments.
I want to scream
Not so everyone could
But so I could
Loud and clear
To let it surround me
To remind me of
All these things
Who you are
I would drown in
Just to breathe
To bask in
I would scream
So I might feel,