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DG 2d
I cut off my ears
at a beautiful note

And fall in love when
it's a screeching sound

I gauge my eyes out
with the violin's bow

The audience claps
so I take a bow

Lately, I have been détaché-d
Colorful melody, no strings attached

Take the strings of the violin
Tie them around my neck

I grab the neck
of the violin, choke myself
and say

Violence is yet
another instrument
I can't play.
The actors acting out feelings
Like songs to Soul singer in the mood
Commit to your instrument

Let it be the heart,
What shall we fill it up with,
Beating & bleeding?
Jon Thenes Apr 1
(not ringing)
Bringing shrill
in a sense vacuum
a violence

Mewing, gut string taut
shock shell
instrument strung
along the centre of a tester tube

Abused sense-fully
with over leaden silence
packed tomb
provision tank
a violence

admin crowding
crowning grin
audience of labcoaters
a tinny able
a stint completed in this pressure test
out come;
all fists and winning
soldier born
a re-spun sinner
Guinea Pig
Kivanc Feb 7
I will dive into desolation before sundown,
If the weather gets darker, I will be lost before tasting
One who likes daylight in sweet sound of tune.

We have to look up to sky to see what's inside of it,
Temple of breath is shaken cause of the sadness,
And excuses disappear in sound of love.

I didn't realise when moment explained fact of separation,
Necessaries of love is appeared slowly with effects of sadness,
I have to lose you and me in sounds of instruments.
Lucius Furius Jan 20
I say there is no physical beauty.
This skin, this flesh, this bone
are but the clay of which we make our beauty,
the instrument on which we play our beauty.
Witness the failure of funeral directors to please true aesthetes:
the dead Ingrid Bergman lacks the beauty of a living bag lady.
Tennis masters
given K-Mart rackets
win gracefully,
while the high-school violinist
playing a Stradivarius
fails to delight us.
Thus noses, lips, ******* have no beauty in themselves.
Perfect features are easily distorted by
anger, sloth, irritability, or conceit.
But in a rare few
energy, grace, composure, and sensitivity
are blended in such a quantity
that they overflow
and color with an exquisite beauty every pore of the body,
fill with a subtle music every gesture, every word.
I say there is no physical beauty.
This skin, this flesh, this bone
are but the clay of which we make our beauty,
the instrument on which we play our beauty.
Hear Lucius/Jerry read the poem: .
This poem is part of the Scraps of Faith collection of poems ( ).
The Secret Poet Nov 2018
A hand glides
softly against
the melodic keys.

A note rings
throughout the room,
bouncing off the walls
roughly and
without falter.

Energy flows through
the hands and
the rhythm picks up.

I hit
NDA that
❤️ me
the cast
but sight
furious as
her tat
for dark
on screen
and put
her spot
to the
bed she
caught this
action purport
law was
stage guitar
Mustapha Olokun Aug 2018
only voices,
and honoring cases
curing the sitting air.

violin in violets color.
shade's golden figure,
under the floral patterns.

and calm winds
that are flutes pipes
and thunders rumble.

earths quake.
damaging and denting
the dark places.

glory and glory,
glory.. and glory,
God is Almighty.

choir flourishes
on humble stand
and sings to a mystery

an ancient anthology
born before the earth,
consuming elements.

wooden craft bending
the airflow, of
pure swamps tune.
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