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People ask why have such a creative imagination
I tell them it's cause I read.
What they don't know
is that I have to have a good imagination
to play out scenarios in my head
that will never happen
or to find ways to pretend to be happy
but I know I never will.
In the midst of these wonderful depressing poems, I have some good news... I tried out for my all state choir today and my old choir teacher that hadn't heard me sing in like 3 years said that I was probably his best audition of the day, and that I was probably the most prepared of the day, and he also said he was proud of me, and I was so happy that I cried for like, a straight 5 minutes after but like, my audition went amazing, and that was the first time he had ever said something like that and I'm kind of happy about it. :)
Maria Mitea Jun 29
I hope someday
I can tell
I am falling in love
while dancing
with you
babe
rock and roll
cause
where I come from
we don't dance
rock and roll,
and it has been about time
to hold hands in
Sokolnikov choir
and dance rock and roll
me and you on a wire.

I don't know how to look
when I see you everywhere,
and the priest is there,
I lose my words and
every move starts speaking
for itself and our hearts
dance rock and roll

I hope someday
I can tell
I am falling in love babe
while dancing
rock and roll
cause
where I come from
we don't dance
rock and roll,
and it's about
dance time.

I am falling in love
with you, babe
with no intention
and no plans
you made me realize
what my soul wants
is not in books, and skies
it only is in our hearts.

Oh, babe today
I am singing again
in Sokolnikov choir
"Ave Maria"
and all I dream about
is holding hands
in rock n'roll mania.
...
Rock N’Roll , BLT challenge
Abby M Oct 2019
If the earth had a temple
Surely it would be the ocean
With its stained-glass fish
And its stately silver sands
Its keening choir of whales
And rocking sermon of waves

The world above is not
A foreign paradise
With its broken-glass windows
And its dingy gas-stained streets
Its keening choir of mothers
And angry sermons of men

If the earth had a temple
Our world would be its end.
Poetic T Oct 2019
He was the child with the magnifying glass that lingered
in the exhalation of the heavens. Always holding it on
those of weaker statue than himself. Insects were his
starting point, as they were barbecued under the influence
of what was focused between light and glass and what
lived became inanimate just a blackened smear that he
smothered words into the dirt
        
                           I'LL BURN THE WORLD,

His parents saw this and in jest laughed it off as the
Immaturity of a child's frustration. That all was but a
a boy finding his place within the many echoes of manhood.
A child was maturing, and they assumed that he was not
ready for the collision of what was in-between the moments
of childhood and adulthood.

One cold and sodden night where the only things that were dry.
Were submerged in the cover of roofs and foliage.
But even the penetrating raindrops gathered in haste to soak
the earth beneath the leaves protection. All drowned within
nights flourish of immersed air. Where it felt that breath was only
in-between the flurry of h20's deluge.

Within the house, within the rooms crept a silence.
            It wasn't alone, for it wept unseen streams between the  
crisp white borderlines,  were doused in clear liquids,
Draping the curtains in non received  heavy remorse,
the only things that were burdensome were the drapes as the weight of the liquid pulled at the seams holding them aloft.

Remorse was neither felt or given. just a feeling of accomplishment.  
Felt it in the moments that succeeded between this
gathering of dead lights as a flame was lit.
But not a whisper was echoed this flame was lifeless
in the eyes of its beneficiary.
But it lept upon the walls like a ballerina, gentle,
and dancing within the confides of its given dance.

He stood in the hallway the flashback was unexpected,
but he still stood there gazing and the beauty of something
given with such frailty that a breath could extinguish
its potential. His parents had no idea, they were slumbering
within the confines of blankets that entombed the warmth.
Clasping hand even in sleep love was a subconscious yearning.
The thing with these old houses some had decretive metal over
the wind bars in beauty crafted to keep things out.


But this was his plan, what cant get in cant get out.
He'd gone in there room and stole the key.
He took a last glance, and said,
             "I Love You
,Before sealing them within. The flames were silent like
a stalker watching waiting, till the inevitable conclusion.

As things started to burn more passionately, caressing every
thing it was touching. So the smoke started to thicken like
A heavy smog it got into places the fire had not reached.
Moans could be heard, then screams at the realisation of
what was happening. He Could hear them, he could see them.
For even though a teenager he was intuitively cunning,
tinkering with everything and anything.

And small cameras were dotted around the house,
looking listening to everything that was seen and spoken.
It had come to fruition due to one such thing he had heard
being discussed by his parents.

"I saw him in the woods,

                 "Doing what darling?

"He didn't see me but the neighbours cat,
                                  "you know soot,

"What did he do, nothing bad!

                "He tied it up,
"Then threw what I thought was water on it,
                  I thought it was nasty but then!!!  

"Then what, your scaring me,

"He lit a cigarette, I didn't even know he smoked,
  "Then he discarded the match,

       "
The cat, oh my god the cat,

"
But he recorded its screams, he recorded it dying,

"
I couldn't move I was so angry, so humiliated,
        "
I wanted to throttle him there and then,

"
But ill phone the police tomorrow,
                  "He's not right, who would do that,

How dare they think that I can just be fobbed off,
         discarded.

                                             I was making music,
the screams were a delicate symphony,
            acoustics that's couldn't be reproduced.
It had to be from the source.

That laid, the plans for what now enveloped that house,
recording every noise, every scream. But what he needed
was for them to burn, to release the music he needed to
hear to complete his work. And they like parents gave it
there all, he had goose bumps as he heard there terror.
his eyes welled up, not in regret but the beauty that his
parent last words were given to him, so personal was this
moment that he'd never forget it.
                                                        
                                                                ­          "Thank Mum & Dad,

After this he released a mix tape, that could be only
conceived from an artist, in the womb of excellence.
That's the reviews he had, it brought shudders to your
heart and mind. It was if your humanity was crying out to it.

As so forth and more were sewn in the adulation of his work.

Now he needed to make more music, but he needed more
screams to make his next piece two were not enough..

So he wandered the night, dressed in unclean wear
so not to be confused with who, or what he was..
He hung around the homeless parts of town,
plastic sheeting for roofs.. and combustible bedding.
It was as if he'd planned himself. but he had to be smart.
for this was if ill planned he would have a needle in his
arm within the year. But he took his time tiny cameras
recording visually and sound.

He had gathered the combustible elements needed to
make this a orchestra of his needing, not a duet like before.
He didn't down play his past offering, but this would make
an album of despair and monument to the flame.

It had been raining, but only lightly as he needed some
dampness in the air on there sheets cardboard mattresses.
So not to raise suspicion on the dampness of there homes.

As they moved away from the embers of barrel fires,
yes he'd thought about that. Not every home was a
crematorium a cardboard and plastic coffin of there
choosing. He waited clasping his hands together breathing
on them as it was cold night. He liked to watch, a voguer
of sort, but his wasn't the fantasy of death it was to hear the
music that was about to be sung with smoke filled lungs.

He'd set up a unique but rudimentary way to light the fire,
a small gas hob with liquid within. it needed to be a certain
temperature ignite, he had tried it before in a field out west.
Deserted he'd made a mock up of this humble place.
And he wasn't mistaken it was fascinating, the flame spread
like the wind enveloping everything but, it was a dull for even
though the flames wept of everything, its tears turning all to
ash..

It was silent, deafening, he cried for a while, there should never
be censorship of the flame, for what is a log fire without the cracking of its inner self being consumed. This was just smoke
and regret. But he now looked down at the camp, his watch
counting down the precious moments.
                                                             He whispered.
                                              

                                                  "Thankyou,
­
And then like a super nova the darkness was ingulfed in
the aurora of flame, gliding over the ground as if a stream
of conscious reckoning. Those near by the civilians that were
                        across the street were transfixed.
As screams embellished the flames, this was my orchestra
of light and noise. Those across the street were either screaming
or videoing the scene.
I looked at them and wondered where there humanity
had gone to, as to film this moment rather than to rush in
and save the few that they could.

I watched as the engines came, extinguishing my masterpiece
choosing the night was always preferable to the day as flames
dance better when there is less light to contaminate there beauty.

My music, I had become quite the remixer, of vocal and rhythmic
sounds.
                               Within a week I had mad nine new songs.

I named them each as deserved, making them in memory of
those who perished that dreadful night.
            It was well received, a few thought it was a haunting
melody of humanity's struggle, while a few thought it was
over ambitious, and lacked the passion of my first piece.

All together it went down well, and the adulation of the
flame was kept, to honour that which gives as much as
takes the breath of life away.
A year had past and the door rang, it was an officer.

                 "Could you come to the station please,

Had I become the victim of my own success, had someone
broke down the acoustics of my music and realised what
they were?? So many thoughts went through the calm
exterior of my persona. But inside the flame dimmed,
had I lit the last candle. I was taken in to a room,
and questioned evasive not to the point but gathering
speed to the answer, where were you on the
                                                             ­       30th April 2019.

Alabi's were a fantastic thing to plan ahead, I had laced
my date with sleeping tablets to leave her in perpetual
slumber. And got back before she awoke, we made love
we were the flame and the wick.. and our sweat was the wax dripping from our form. The next week I dumped her.

They asked if I recognised a picture, blurry and ill framed
but I could make out the figure was me. No sir I don't why.
This person of interest is wearing your jacket, your logo!
I smiled and was truthful to a degree.
                                                             Planning is everything.

I threw maybe fifty into the crowd when I did a concert
in the city, when we drove past some homeless persons.
We donated what was left to them, do you realise how
cold these streets are, who am I to steal warmth away.
I don't wear my own merchandise what do you think I
am egotistical, no I wanted to help those who I could
have been if not for my music. I lost my parents I know
what its like to be alone.

I think the show went well, as I was released before
reporters even got a sniff. But I knew that my time
was a wick trying to keep the flame lit but dying out
anyway. I had made preparations for this time.

I had brought a club only for gigs, cheesy as hell but
had that 80's disco vibe the entire floor was light up.
But I had brought  the ingredients for thermite,
amazing what you learn in school and the internet.
But I never used mine different libraries in different
cities so not raise suspicion. I  invited the music critics
and others which I had personally disproved of.
its was going to be free drinks and themed 80's night.

Who can not want free drinks, well I wasn't going to be
disappointed 90% came, how lucky the few.
Phones were confiscated, no video, but more
importantly no phone calls to the outside world.
I told them at the end of the night that I was realising
a new song, they were like vultures to flesh.
As the night progressed some wanted to leave,
but we offered them the VIP section also lit flooring.

Now was the time, I had put heating elements under the floor
to ignite the thermite. A supernova of heat even though brief
would ignite the choir of harmony needed. I asked them,
                                                           ­ "Are you ready,

And then silence, I put on my welding glasses,
                                                        ­         I wasn't stupid.
Never look into the heart of the flame unless you want
to be blinded by its beauty.
I pressed a button and it was magnificent, it was like a tide of sunlight, they tried to scramble but all exits were locked.
It was like the wizard of Oz, and the witch I'm meltinggggg..
But this wasn't a fairy tale.. The adulation I had for these
chosen few. What excitement the others had missed.

I'd made my booth flame and smoke proof, I had my own
walkway but I knew that this was the last time I could pay
homage to the flame. As the screams died down.
The wicks smouldered and the floor looked more like a battle
field of  WWII. I began I knew I didn't have a lot of time.
But this was just a single I'd already got the backing music
ready. And as I worked away, I could hear the banging on
the reinforced doors. They gave me a breather to get my
work fulfilled.

I heard the doors start to give way but no matter
I'd only needed this time to tweak the music.
Given I'd started this over an hour ago, it was good
on my part for this not to be broadcast till I saw fit.
As the police burst through, gazing at the flaming
effigies that lied before them, some threw up, gross..

While others saw me smiling I pressed the button and
my new song was word wide.. its was called the critics
tried to burn me down. The response was gratifying.
Likes reached the hundreds of thousands in mere minutes.
Well it was only three minutes twenty five seconds long.
As they shoot at the booth I wiggled my finger at them.
I do like to plan ahead but dam was that loud against the
glass. Got to be said some had wicked aim, made me flinch
a few times.

But alas all things come to an end, I uploaded my videos
of what I had done. I was proud of my contribution to
my legacy and empowering others with my music.
As I looked down at the puddle, I tap danced in it for
a moment and then lit the lighter, I looked a them
and once again waved, I was like a funeral pyre.
A crematorium of silence and then I was gone.
                                                I didn't scream,
I was in her embrace and had done her proud.
Aurora Sep 2019
Thank You

For everything you've taught me
Through these short years
For believing in me
When even I didn't
For providing me with an outlet
And positive feedback

Teachers deserve more appreciation than they get
And I just want it to be known
That I'll miss this choir
This class where I've felt loved
This home that you've made
Within these school walls

Thank You
Moth Sep 2019
singing high
getting higher

missing notes
and their boys

flipping hair
and their fingers

pretty girls
always posing
I personally have sung both soprano and alto, but honestly I hate sopranos. They're all such "mean girl" stereotypes.
JT Nelson Jun 2019
I basked in the joy of the chord
In the vibrations of the perfection
Of harmonies that reverberated to my core
That sang deep to my soul

Those notes were familiar
The dynamics lowered and lifted
Me through the air in the lofted church
Ceiling and stained glass reflections

As my daughter sang from the mass of robes
I remembered singing from that same stage
On that same white marble stage where
I stood with my mom so many years ago

A smile and a tear leapt up from my heart
As I remember those chords with my mom
So happy she was to be looking down
At her granddaughter singing so sweet
Casey Mar 2019
He had always been confusing to me.
I think we consider ourselves to be friends.
I never could tell if he meant the things he said.

I had this preconceived idea about him,
based on what others have told me.

"Don't trust him."
"He's a player."
"He seems nice, but it's only a cover."

I was at the band and choir competition, looking for my friend.
I flung open the door of the vocal warm-up room, the fieldhouse,
and my heart stopped.

He was the only one there, yet he seemed to fill the room.
Twirling around,
singing his heart out,
jumping from piano to piano, playing the accompaniment to his song.

He must've stolen that voice from the cosmos,
for I've never heard anything so celestial.

He turned to me, still singing,
but I'm not sure if he really saw me.
He saw those empty bleachers as packed to the brim, all listening eagerly.


There is something indescribably vulnerable about singing.
I was awestruck, at a loss for words.

How could someone so emotionally raw be characterized as---manipulative?
I don't know.
Nova Lea Mar 2019
Watch all the kids wasting away
Lost in the darkness in light of day
Sitting alone while everyone is there
A simple smile masks the pain of despair

Messed up and locked up a pile of chains
Silence and violence going on in their brains
Tell me what’s wrong
Sing me your song
There’s nothing in here let me show you a way

Out of it louder than all of these noises
Here is a chorus of beautiful voices
Drown out your sorrow
There is a tomorrow
All possibilities, abundance of choices

The music connection ‘tween millions of souls
A loving embrace long after you’re old
Here is your family and here is a choice
Sing out your passion fulfilling your voice
Alexis Jan 2019
(The quote “When she gets giddy, anything can happen” is pulled directly from the episode mentioned in the poem. The episode is called ‘Irma Decides Al Needs A Psychiatrist’ and is available for free on the internet.)

An episode of the radio show My Friend Irma aired on
April 2nd, 1951, with an advertisement for
Pepsodent toothpaste and a live audience.

Punchdrunk and in love. Radio waves built from
dead laughter. Sounds from people whose
vocal chords no longer have the capacity vibrate.

The lead actress, Marie Wilson, was married
three times and died of cancer in 1972.
She was 56 years old and had stared in

seven years worth of radio shows,
more than a twenty movies, and a television show
that ran for two years.

She has three Hollywood Walk of Fame
stars dedicated in her name. And yet, that
wasn’t enough to get her to stick around.

At some point in her life she must have thought
that time would freeze, and love would make her immortal
When she gets giddy, anything can happen.

But time kept moving, and she realized she had to
move with it. Forward, until her very existence was beat
into disappearance by illness and sentiment.

From 9 to 10 PM on certain days of the week,
on the station 96.5 FM, between the sounds
of conservative radio aimed senior citizens,

her voice crackles through on vibrating air.
None of her marriages lasted, her body did not
make it to senior citizen status, and yet

I can hear her, as clearly as if she was
in the next room over, joking for a dead audience,
a ghost choir of time traveling sounds.
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