Music is all but
Perfect; tis a faux concept
In an abstract world
Three stand before thee
The silver trophies gleam bright
Ambitions are bared
The golden hall sings
Of an art that decorates
The spaces of time
Stories sing of ways
That shed light on
Tall tales spake
With green envy
Thy name wilt one speak
Before the moon sets
Upon one's kingdom
And bite one's thumb
Shall one joust in word or sound
Even the ocean could not contain enough salt to pass around
And doubts have dashed
And murmurs gone
And frowns have turned downside up
And newfound friends
As miles of
Have rewarded the sweetest
Not of gold but of
a musical gift
Written after we won a music competition. Some people were salty about losing. I'm just glad all my hard work didn't go to waste.
Cactus words are
That grow in deserts
Of dry wit
“You do realize you don’t have to keep doing this, you know.”
She knows. Of course, she knows. But there is too much. She cannot stop. She cannot stop until everything is out.
Even if it hurts. Even if it’s trash. Even if no one reads or listens. Even if it makes no sense. Even if it’s all lies. Even if it’s all true. Even if the truth is a lie. Even if the lie is a truth. Even if it is a paradox in and of itself.
She writes until she bleeds. The pen is connected to her veins. The ink, her blood. The words, her thoughts.
“You could share the pen, you know.”
She knows. But whoever holds the pen, changes the words. And when words change, worlds change.
Words have power one wishes not to abuse. Not to use. Not to reveal. Not to keep. Words keep secrets the whole world knows.
But like an open book, one would see the words upon the page, but no one would care enough to read the whole book.
everyone is an open book, but not everyone likes to read.