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Faye May 7
i used to write about
a poet meeting a musician
who turns her poems into songs
and together, they make art
out of love and moments they share
are you the one from my dreams?

all her muses didn't appreciate
the heart she put into pieces she wrote
but maybe the musician will.
the beginning of a new chapter
in the poet's life
The soloist closes their eyes and leans in to play their instrument,
an intertwined movement as the musician and their tool becomes one.
An ever so subtle look of one who loves to that which is intimate,
knowing the sentiment that was formed now may never be undone.

The dance is bittersweet as the moment has already began to fade,
a beautiful sight with the undertones of a melancholic symphony.
Even though the house lights stayed a lit and the music swayed
the musician could see the end coming of this moment so vividly.

This temporary music spreads out into infinity,
where all is left is the memories.
Notes and undertones that almost approach divinity,
where all is left is the reveries.

The house lights went out, the soloist left gasping for air.
Every delicate sensation overwhelmed but they didn't care.
Our nights filled with dreams of music as it drifts quietly off into the night sky forming into stars.
Payton Feb 24
Imagine, I am sitting
at the piano.
Imagine, you come to sit
beside me-to join me.
And while I am playing,  out of the corner
of my eye, I see the twinkle
in yours. The longing in your eyes,
because I caress the keys of the piano
so softly, and you hope, that
I might, one day, do the same
But I am no more than a simple musician.
So imagine this, I can play the piano,
but    I could
          make you
This poem was written in 2016.
Betty Jan 23
Pick up the brush
although the handle be thorns
and paint with words, or love or tears or rain
paint them all the same
paint your heart or the sky or a thousand other things
paint until the brush is dry and fingers bleed
for you are blessed indeed
How lucky we are to have an imagination. Some people don't have one-poor sane things!
I listen to Ani DiFranco  
When I want to be inspired
She fills my tortured soul
With lyrical fire

I listen to Ani DiFranco
When I want to hear wisdom
Any given song
Is a musical politics lesson

I listen to Ani DiFranco
When I want to be inspired
She fills my poetic soul
With lyrical fire
some poetic words for my hero
From the ashes Sep 2020
Up in the backwoods
Of Michigan, lives the
Traveling man name of Tim.
He's in a band, with a million fans, and I think it is a sin, that he's in better shape than I am, and I'm ******* younger than him.
Ever since he got bit by that possum, he will never be the same again.
I had a great conversation with Traveling Man the other day, he's a great dude, and this ode practically wrote itself. Long may he live
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