Writing a story on a topic,
Hazing away at the microsoapics,
I write stories that aren’t meant to be fun,
Just the basic humdrum.

Reality is my Inspiration,
No matter the mood I’m in.

Dragons and Wizards are to be left on the bookshelves,
As I run to work,
And meet my colleagues for a day of writing reality.

We walk the world in actuality,
And see people with all different vitality.
People of all different ideas of reality.

They speak,
I listen,
I ask,
And they answer,
And we both learn about reality together.

I then write what I heard,
Tell what I saw,
And let the ideas fly like birds.

I've seen all people of life,
I've heard many of there trifes.

I laughed at their victories,
I cry at their lost,
And I hear all their vivid histories.

I write all types of reality,
From the memories of all different types of vitalities.

And as I write about how reality unfurls,
I write about the greatest dreams of this world

With a cursory press of a key and arco of the strings,
They look at each other,
Determining when to start through what looks like telepathy,
But it is instead the subtle movement of arms and chest.

They begin.

With the movement of bows bouncing on metal,
And the dancing digits upon black and white,
Sound reverberates between the audience,
With eyes and ears in tandem absorbing the scene.

They continue.

As they pass over bridges,
And draw out waves with their hands,
I listen,
Swaying and breathing and performing as though I am beside them,
Despite being above them,
Yet feeling so below.

Becoming one with their instrument,
And bringing me along,
I smile,
As just like they pull beauty out of their tools with their soul,
They guide joy out of me,
For all of us.

They end.

Then again, they start.
With new sounds from a new person,
With new intent,
And new methods.

They change.

From haphazard joy and dance,
To somber death and confusion,
They become one with the music,
And follow in its suit.

They continue, anew.

As the sound changes,
So do I.
Listening with sharper ears,
Hoping to catch a different magic in my ears.

They continue, still.

As the cello draws honey,
The violin; its dew,
And the piano waterfalls arpeggios,
I am content.

They end.

Full of the food of life,
They stand,
To let us feast with them with our hungry hands,
Giving our own vibrations to fill our drooling souls.

They leave.
And so do I.
Both of us fed and quenched,
From the performance.

"Demons sing,
Throughout the horrid night,
Hoping to cause,
A little fright…"

I don't know why,
But the terrors so good.
We stay here and lie,
Maybe more then we should…

Sirens at night,
Waiting just like we would,
Temptation and ire,
That burns you like firewood.

Maybe we're monsters,
Maybe we're good,
Maybe we're humans,
Just under a hood.

Yet at the end of the day,
We simply saaayyyy,

"There ain't much about us,
That you need to know.
We simply stay here,
Waiting to go.
All that we do,
Is **** fools like you.
For our songs are temptation,
And you humans love damnation!
And just like a lamb,
To the pitiful slaughter,
Your blood will soon run,
Like red crimson water!"

Her Music

Her music is a siren’s melody that stirs my lust within me.
She stirs my desires from my mire’s into chamomile tea.
I poke and **** to understand what I have on hand,
To understand what makes me bend so to that band.

Is it the counterpoint of chest and waist that draws me into delightful harmony?
Is it the peak of each sloping lick that entices my ear and makes it perk up?
Does the dotted staccatos of her face draw me away from the affrightful monotony?
Is it so wrong to try and demand what makes her so desirable to me?

But as I poke and **** and pray and prey upon her contemporary anatomy,
Will I **** the joke of the frog that made her such a fantasy?
As I hope and have and hate and harbor such feeling on her,
Will I find the joke on the frog was always just inside her?

Do I want her music for it stirs my tea,
Or do I want her song for it makes me happy?
Do I poke and **** and prey and pray for her melody to be within me?
Or do I poke and **** and pray and prey upon her for her contemporary anatomy?

Chamomile dreams help lull me to lay,
To avoid the night of thinking about the day,
To once again hear her melody,
And fear her coming into my sleep.

A dream of beauty played by a lyre,
As my tongue snakes the song of a choir,
Bind her music and mine together,
Blind the melody of her forever,
Can she say yes, no,
Could be mine and mine alone,
Don’t take what isn’t mine,
Dissonance grown as harmonize,
Everdream break and eyes align,
Every sin made again mine,
For Eve is not Adams’s rib,
Fraught with the thought of glib,
Got nothing to give,
Giving love to nothing she is,


As the key of C is a simple beauty,
No flats nor sharps or blemishes on the tarp,
With an infinite possibility,
For a finite amount of humanity.

Yet mine is complicated with dismay,
Enharmonic with six symbols,
Found,
Two-ways.

For her melody is C,
The great.
She is my tea,
And strait.

And mine is grey,
The dead.
A pale sway,
Of dread.

As I poke and **** and pray and prey and hope and have and hate and hate the music,
I wonder if 7th can be rounded.
As I poke and **** and pray and prey and hope and have and hate and hate the music,
I wonder if my 7ths are rounded.

As I poke and **** and pray and prey and hope and have and hate and love her music,
I wonder if tea dreams.
As I poke and **** and pray and prey and hope and have and hate and love her music,
I dream about a new key.

As I poke and **** and pray and prey and hope and have and hate and hate and love her,
I wonder if I’m right.
As I poke and **** and pray and prey and hope and have and hate and hate and love her,
What if I’m not right?