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Rachel Smith Jan 2017
I know this sound,
I’ve heard it before.
As my feet sway to the beat,
It makes my heart sore.

I know this, My brain thinks,
As my feet dance to the beat.
As my ears hear the song.
I am free.

Where? Where?
Where have I heard this glorious tune,
As my feet continue to dance,
as if they were always meant to.

The song sounds familiar,
but I can’t remember.
It bothers me as I feel the beat.

I have a feeling,
a glimpse of a memory,
that I have done this before.

Muscle memory guides me,
as I waltz flawlessly.
All across the ballroom floor.

Thinking back to years prior,
I have come to desire,
the perfect memory and brainpower
others withhold in their head.

It bothers be so,
much more than I show,
as I glide and leap and dance.

I imagine where in my past
Where’ve I had such a blast,
as where I can feel the beat and sore.
Up and around this perfect dancing floor.

I end the dance,
with a nod and a glance,
to where the music if from.
He nods at me as I leave,
his face upholding a look of glee,
as he knows the name of the song I hum.

I forget what song I danced to,
I forget the words I heard,
I forget what beat I danced to,
but tomorrow I dance to it once more.

I remember nothing,
but remember everything.
Like my someone put my memory on mute.

I have no worry and I have no strife,
because I’ve named the mystery song in my head.
It seems only fitting,
to end at the beginning,
and name it what it is.

My Personal Song.
My Glorious Tune.
The Beat that Wakes my Muscles.

My Lovely and Divine,
My Shimmer and Shine,
My Heartbeat that Soars through the sky.

My Sound so Familiar To Me.
Do not Steal Please
I see this as a Dancer who loves a Song, but can't remember any aspect of the song unless the song is playing. Then she dances like a master because her body knows the song better than her mind does.
  Nov 2016 Rachel Smith
Terry Jordan
The first thinkers were poets
Naming Mother Earth
Beginning symbolic thinking
Of nature, death and birth

Though themes are often repeated
Love, Beauty and God
Poetry in the guise of Religion
A prophet or a fraud

The poet resurrects the Primitive
Through allegory and similes
Disarming the unknown like explorers
Sublime Prophets and Visionaries

They must lay bare those treasured images
That must be expressed
Unraveling and revealing the sounds
At each soul’s behest

Encompassing the entire Cosmos
So lyrical the beat
The poet’s excitement flows outward
Laid at the Reader’s feet

So original, individual
She won’t examine or explain
Letting go the festering feelings
Disturbances in her brain

He exposes his dark, wounded psyche
Just to release and express
Such capacity to see and compare
Hyperbole at its best

I love, I hate, I suffer
A special dance in rhythm and rhyme
The poet as a buffer
Lessening the pain and sting of time

Laden with symbol and feelings
She gives you sweet relief
From something urgent, revealing
Confusion to belief

Through a cinematic kind of seeing
The poet purges to transform
By leaping through Alice’s looking glass
She never was one to conform

Quite intolerant of convention
Just like The Mad Hatter
His passions immune to all logic
In syncopated patter

Jamming up the poet’s mind
Struggling for expression
Seeking order out of chaos
An infantile regression

Cleaving to his imaginary world
The poet breaks out into words
Creating sound paintings to be unfurled
So his own agony is blurred

She succumbs to storms of passion
With instinctive techniques
Rhymes and rhythm still in fashion
Out of hand flows mystique

The poet mines from his unconscious
The Reader is not blind
For every single line and symbol
Means something to the mind

Causing an inner liberation
Enlightenment or flight
It is a matter of life and death
When darkness turns to light.
Been working on this piece for a while; my thoughts on the inner mind of poets.
Rachel Smith Nov 2016
“Ding, ****, the Witch is Dead,”
I hear that everyday in my head
No one stops too let me free,
No one realizes that the song mocks me
Day and Night, the same lyric chimes and rings,
No one else hears a thing

My powers come from within,
Now people are talking about hanging me from Big Ben.
“No, please don’t” I beg and I plead,
But there is no one willing to save me.
I yell, I shout, I lay a curse on everyone that didn’t help me.

“For every soul here, they shall never be free.
Forevermore, you will think ‘if only you helped me!’
Although no one can escape the grasps of Death,
Your ghost will haunt this town, as soon as you breath your last breath.
No one can save you, and no one will try!
Now, I curse you as my last Goodbye!”

They string me up, higher and higher.
I struggle and kick, but I’m tangled in briar.
“This is medieval. This is wrong.” I pray and I plead
No one wants to help me. They watch as I bleed.

Ding, **** the Witch is Dead
I think as my last thoughts play over and over in my head.
Ding, ****.
Ding, ****.
Do Not Steal, Orginal
Rachel Smith Sep 2016
My silence is special to only me.
It keeps me happy, sane, and free.
If anyone else heard my silence,
They would be bombarded the loudness of it all.
My loudness is the music I sing and hum, up and down the hall.
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday,
Thursday, Friday, and Saturday.
My family, on Sunday.

During school, songs fill my brain.
Whether I like them or not,
They lie there in a knot.
I can’t untie them, so they stay.
All night. All day.
It stays.

Happiness, Happiness. Songs fill my day.
I am quiet, but my thoughts are loud.
My thoughts scream, they pound.
Music sorts them out.
I don’t know what to do without my music.
Music is my everything.
Music is my life.

Help. Chaos. HELP.
I don’t have my music; I don’t have my life.
My thoughts are jumbled, where is my system?
My system is music, it sorts my thoughts.
Chaos fills my ears, my mind, my heart.
I tell people that my music is gone, I cannot function.
Too many thoughts, can’t think straight.
People think my music is bad for me.
That it is distracting me from what I need to do.
Music keeps me sane, it does me no harm.

I can’t think straight, my mind wanders.
Come back, I have things to do.
I can’t do those things.
But I have to try…
I have to do my best.
When can I get my music back?

When I Finally get my life back,
My music, my soul.
I sort out my thought, my thinking.
I get my things done,
I become productive.

I am Free.
I am happy, I am Sane.
I am myself.
Rachel Smith May 2016
I miss the old days
Where we would laugh and play
We would go outside all day
Where we would come back sweaty and happy
I miss the old days

Now we are tired of the outside
No more laughing and play
We now sit inside all day
No more sweat and happy faces
I miss the old days

I miss the old days
Where I could grab some toys
And start a game with you
Where we would laugh and be Best Friends
I miss the old days

Now when I get near you,
One little sister to the older
You say, “Go away! No one likes you”
Burning our friendship and turning it to ashes
I miss the old days

My family nowadays, they play around and tease
My sister joins in, but takes her anger out on me
“Shut Up.” “Be quiet.” “No one cares.”
When I feel hurt and tell, they brush it off
“She doesn’t mean it.” They say
I then look at her devil grin and think
I miss the old days
This is my feelings on me and my sister's relationship over the years. This is me remembering the 'old days' and inserting that into today.
Rachel Smith May 2016
My life’s an endless dream I can’t control
And when I try, it pushes me back down.
I don’t want attention 24/7
I’m not the hyper class-clown.

I am the observer, the watcher, the viewer
I don’t want a solo.

You look at my room and see a mess,
I see a stage reserved for me.
Where I can sing, play, and exploit my imagination.
I just like to do it alone.

I’m not weird in the way you think.
I don’t need friends or help.
I live my life the way I want.
Not how people say.

The world thinks Introverts have problems.
Believe me, we do.
It’s just not mental or physical.


You!! You extroverts going out there and having fun!
Keep doing that, just leave us out if we say no.

TV’s and entertainment say being alone 24/7 is bad.
It’s not when you do it right.

If I’m alone for one, two, or three days;
It means I want to be alone!
There is nothing wrong with being alone,
It is how books are made, imaginations explored!

People call us weird, bookworms, dreamers, strange.
We are all that and more.
Some of us want knowledge!
Some want to be themselves!

Children’s TV shows used to say ‘Be Yourself! No matter what!’
Now Disney’s character Anna says-
“No One Wants to Be Alone.”

We Do.

Introverts have friends; we are normal.
We’re just a little quirky.
Don’t try to change us; don’t try to fix us.

After all…

Don’t Fix What’s Not Broken.
A poem about Introverts, Warning-Long Poem!

— The End —