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Taylor Marion Oct 2016
It was the turning point of my youth.
The age I realized,
“If I dig far enough into my mind, I can eventually find gold.”
So I stood in the middle of the street of my hometown, stared into the sky and begged for answers.
(Answers I was too affected to search for in front of me)
It didn’t hear my questions, of course,
so I made up the answers myself and made those answers my religion.
I guess I wanted to feel responsible for my maker’s omnipotence.

Always feeling misunderstood, I ignored those who opposed me and opened my ears to those alike. I sang along and sang into a mic like I was atop a podium.
I felt special and entitled.
I wanted to be heard like the rest of them and die with my shrill cry echoing for all eternity until eternity died.

Now, I’m beginning to see my skin fold and my eyes inflame.
I look back on past thoughts and deride.
How embarrassing it is to have zero experience and claim to have lived like you’ve lived nine lives.
Since, I’ve thrown out many records along with my many bloated ideas
because my neck has become exhausted from holding my thick nose in the air.
And my religion keeps shrinking the drunker I get with loneliness
and now I finally have room to see who my maker has made: a faker.

All my idols are *******
Dressed as angels
All my idols are crooks
Dressed as victims
All my idols are artists
Dressed as… well… whoever they want you to see.
Almost as well dressed as me
Austin Heath Sep 2016
Ashes pushed in tight
against the pressure of us;
Our loose breath and words.

We are purveyors,
headcutters, jazzists, brawlers,
writers and killers.

We meet here to live.
We scream and bang instruments.
We come here to die.

Cutting our hair and
writing on the walls, dressing
immaculately.

Trying to keep our
chins above our sweat, rising
an inch a minute.

We come here to be
baptized in this river of
sin, made unholy

before the weekday
pulls us out of tantrum, to
mediocrity.
Silverflame Jun 2016
I still remember the day we first met.
It was so magical, I will never forget.
I was invited to see and try something new.
But never would I have imagined I would meet you.

One by one, we got to hold you and learn.
I remember I couldn’t wait for it to be my turn.
And when she finally placed you in my tiny hands.
I didn’t expect you would change my future plans.

I placed my lips on your cold silver mouthpiece.
I took a deep breath and your notes broke the peace.
I looked at her with impressed eyes and lips painted with glee.
She praised the others, but the one she was most impressed with, was me.

11 years we have been together, where did time go?
We already have so many memories, performing at every show.
And the time we played for the queen, do you remember as well?
I will hold you until my hands can no longer move themselves.

I can’t picture a life, a childhood without you by my side.
They said we were partners in crime, just like Bonnie and Clyde.
And whenever I was falling, you were my never failing parachute.
I love you to pieces, my old trusty flute.
Just a little piece for my little flute.
Racquel Tio Jun 2016
the hard part about loving musicians
is that they get stuck in your head
sometimes in a melody
and sometimes in a memory.
Are you a cat or bird,
devil or saint?
Villain and victim, dichotic romantic,
bruised and beaten, ostracised.
Bruised and beaten, demonised.
A willow bending against cruel fashion's wind.

A thousand storms of impotent hate,
jealousies and malignant complaints.
Rain like sonnets before the deaf!
As your gifts are pearl before swine.

And yet thy brow is regal still.
The profile of a demon prince -
no matter what shape taketh the face.
Be thou Quasimodo or Adonis by fate.
Whose smile has lit a thousand candles
in thankless, bitter hearts,
and fires in the hearths of freaks
who need but a spark to break the leash.

Or art thou Prince of Cats?
Yearning for the freedom to roam, to hunt.
Seeking pleasure, his mistresses pats.
The enemy of closed doors and cold paws.

Or could thou be a bird?
Clipped wings, a gilded cage,
whose song can only go so far.
If not let to glide into the night, to rise,
to greet the dawn with bleary, satisfied eyes.
Of one who has been given the chance to soar!
Or else to wilt, and yowl no more.
Of many a poet and musician I have known.
Messy, 'specially on Sundays.
Feet a'shamble from stumblin' drunkhappy.
"It's all good, baby," Blakey yells over the drums.

Bourbon flavored women hard to swallow
with their jagged softness. Smoking section (whites) stares
down dance floor (everyone else) with guilt induced jealousy.

Coltrane's back in Philly studyin.'
Pinstriped chuckle from the Rosenbergs;
kinetic energy giving birth to the cool.

The trumpeter's high turns his tool into a weapon.
The sound briefly stealing him from his demons.
"I'll find a guy when I finish my set."

Black and white televisions: blacks in white suites
Smiling china white for an all white audience.
The movers, to this point, have only been black.

Little hero Harry thinks
  blacks and whites should die on the battlefield together.
Everyone's starting to get it.

"That guitar sweeter than my old lady."
Charlie and Miles holding each other's needles
while Thelonious and his hard candy go bad.

Leanin' on bricks in a back alley.
The circle passes the joint around like the good times.
"Just keep em rollin."

The skirts expand and deflate wildly to the rhythm.
Pure sweat melting into the floors like drops of water on roots.
A melody never heard before.
Silence, the void before the sound,
It hangs between the watchers, as they
stare  into the fire, burning in the center,
casting light in a myriad of shadows. And
all is still. Before them lie their instruments
nine, stringed and bowed, drums and fiddles.
They lift them to their sides as one, and all relax
as their hands caress their singing lovers. A breath,
drawn deep; released into the stillness of the night,
and the music sounds, as a cord too strained the tension
snaps, and the music soars on singing wings, waves of
light, of light and shadow, born on a wind of deepest
passion, out into the thrumming night, resonating with
their song. And so the music sounds, as the night awakes
and joins in their song.
A tribute to music
IsReaL E Summers Jun 2015
Requiem for a dream
Unhinged upon the seams
Glimmer, glam & gleam
But he
"Don't know what it means"
He shone so bright
Gave all his light
He fell from heavens grace.

Its dark inside this place.
He only sees her face.
a heart not lost;
Misplaced.
Muse-i-c
It almost feels as if this industry
Relies on our ignorance, just to survive.
This new and impressionable generation
Brainwashed by toxic, destructive lies.
Young women pressured to pump up their lips
**** in their stomachs, push up their "****"
Only to return home, exhausted and drained
From all the pretence to keep up that façade

Energy that could be used elsewhere
Pursuing their dreams, showing someone they care;
Is our relevance determined by the size of our behind?
'Cause at least that's what the media pumps into our minds-
Better get weave, but look natural too...
Better have perfect eyebrows, maybe get them tattooed...
Better keep them legs shaved, bleach that upper lip...
Better make that skin spotless, edit those pics...
Go hit the gym girl, not for your health,
But to find that "good" man to hand over his wealth.
Oh, and don't get too comfortable in your own skin,
Don't try to stand out, just try to fit in.
Don't practise self-love, don't think you're "too nice"
The men they don't like it, best take their advice.
Just shrink yourself down and do as you're told
'Cause the man has no place for a woman too bold.

What are these messages we're teaching, man?
The power of music is in the wrong hands.
Whatever happened to respecting the art?
Singing songs to empower, reach out to the heart?
Not to gloat, or to sneer, or put others to shame
Or get back at that ex without using their name -

Yes it's freedom of expression, but there are better ways to do it;
Maybe use your pain to help another soul get through it.
Maybe use your spotlight to teach these younger souls
Not to beat themselves up for the things they can't control.
Preaching "do as you wish, just be mindful of others
Branded or not, dress however you feel
Stay true to your heart and what brings you to life
Forget the superficial, that isn't what's real -
What's real is the passion
The breaths that you take
Smiles you plant on people's faces
Each inch of progress that you make
The beauty of our natural world
The loving lessons that you teach
The smallest act of kindness -
A smile on the street."
Janielle Mainly Jan 2015
Tell me about a fellow, who played the guitar or something similar,
How he starved playin' night and day,
The way he didn't have enough to eat,
Tell me about his technique,
If I were to try it, you'd keep me quiet wouldn't you?
You say he died young but lives on through the unique melody he brought you and I, but back in those days he was told to play a different way, the same thing would happen today! I tell you,
The same thing would happen today...
Many musicians are recognized for their greatness years after they die.
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