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Savour the elegance of the little things.
They ferment to craft the essence of us.
They make up to melodies our soul sings.

It’s watching dust caught in the light cycling
through windows where I was first made breathless.
Savour the elegance of the little things.

Drizzles in summers and storms in springs.
When crickets chirp to the air’s dampness.
They make up to melodies our soul sings

The way we feel our whole body smiling
as our veins are pumped with pure happiness.
Savour the elegance of the little things.

The little many music notes dancing
Gives us life and fills our deep emptiness.
They make up the melodies our soul sings.

When you are lost and there’s no one else leading
These little things will be your close compass
Savour the elegance of little things,
They make up to melodies our soul sings
Do not listen to what others might preach.
Heart’s unrest from all the wrongs, do something
Before your life their crude instructions breach.

Diploma and money. Drown them in bleach.
A paycheck is a coward’s worshipping
Do not listen to what others might preach.

Life is too short so make it yours to reach.
Shed your suit and fly it up high, sailing
Before your life their crude instructions breach.

The day you obey, goodwill shall bewitch.
Hush backstage. For the show is beginning.
Do not listen to what others might preach.

And soon you’ll find yourself, nothing but rich.
Not gold, but the joy you have been looking,
Before your life their crude instructions breach.

Now the world needs you; a game-changing speech:
‘All you dare-to dreamers and self-seeking:
Do not listen to what others might preach,
Before your life their crude instructions breach.’
Anxiety reverberates through my body. My chest becomes so heavy that it feels as if a cinderblock has been lied down on it. All of my body's involuntary functions pause to listen to the demons that live in the back of my head. The demons announce to my anatomy that I have no worth, no value. The demons mock my lungs, "Why work so hard to keep her breathing when nobody on earth wants her alive." My body receives the criticisms and obeys the demon's demands. My lungs quit. I cannot breath. My mouth quits. I cannot speak, the only sounds escaping are soft screams. My ears quit. I hear nothing, besides the demons. My stomach quits. It tries to commit suicide by consuming itself causing me to curl into a ball in severe agony. My eyes try to fight off the negativity. They push the negativity out through tears, but it isn't enough. They look myself over in the mirror, trying to find some value. My eyes explore my entire body, searching desperately for something beautiful, something worth fighting for. They find nothing, but disappointment. My hands fight too. They find a blade and slide it across my wrist, a demon escapes me through the tear in my skin. My body feels a slight relief, but soon a different demon rekindles my self disgust. I let the blade dance across my body, over and over again, feeling slight relief each time. Eventually my entire body is bleeding and I am still only slighting relieved of my pain. My eyes work with my hands on the search to find a place to help the demons to escape. There is no place on my body left, that I could use to release my demons. My crying has stopped and enough demons have left my system to breath comfortably. I put the blade away, and slip into bed, my entire body aching. The physical pain is much easier to handle than the physical and emotional torture the demons would have caused. I lay in bed, trying to be as still as possible to avoid agitating my wounds. I cry to myself silently, because I know I'm going to have to rip myself open again tomorrow night. I feel numb enough to eventually to fall into a slumber. Will I spend the rest of my life rereleasing the same demons over and over again, just to feel unsatisfied and numb? Are my demons right? Is my life worthless? Especially considering I'm at my best either when I'm unconscious or when I'm numb? I am so tired of being numb. Agonizing numbness.
John Keats
John Keats
John
Please put your scarf on.
The little gold
Shines beautifully
Under the yellow light
Shimmering faces
With a cheeky smile

Come four years
A little older
A  little dirtier
But that same cheeky smile
The same little gold

Come another 8 years
The same little gold
Inside
Layers and layers
of dark, black
dirt piling up
No more cheeky smiles
Only masks, masks and more masks

Come another 16 years
The same little gold
More and more
More and more
More and more
Layers piling up
The little gold
No more to be seen
Black, coarsened gold
Masks, masks and
more masks
A heart of gold
But not
a mind of gold

Come another 32 years
The little black gold
ceases to exist.
Under the thousands
and thousands
and thousands
of other layers
But a new layer of gold
forms.
Twas not the gold
formed first
Formed last
Old is gold.
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