my cat bit my earphones
i am a person who commutes everyday with my earphones on. i listen to music and i dance to it. doing what seem to be small jerks to the public but a series of big and grand moves in my head. i was a dancer.
but my cat bit my earphones.
i hum the tunes ever so softly only to find out the stares from the people i ignored the whole ride, could hear me. i was a singer.
a silent performer.
for the audience of none.
and yes, my cat bit my earphones.
i am a person who can’t live without it. i listen to music and i zone in. i cancel all the thoughts in my head and just be. in the midst of beats, melodies, harmonies, and lyrics i was at peace. the maximum volume became my version of quiet.
and yet my cat bit my earphones.
the cheapskate in me stops me everyday from buying a new pair even if in exchange i’d have to embrace a new kind of quiet.
the quiet shared by the people i commute with:
the roaring engines, the horns of cars following no beat at all, the shouting of the barkers and conductors rapping with no flow. i hear everything. i was a listener.
a loud performance
for the audience of one.
all because my cat bit my earphones.
i blame my cat everyday for this punishment. i love my cat but sometimes i wish she could pay for it or even apologize for that matter. but i have no choice but to continue my everyday commute without my earphones.
****. my cat bit my earphones.
the thoughts i can’t mute when i commute now screams loudly begging me to listen. begging me to write them down. begging me to finally piece together all the words i know will make sense when given time. i am a writer.
i just can’t help myself but think that my cat bit my earphones.
now i am a person who commutes everyday without my earphones on. i listen to my head and i feel it. putting together ideas and emotions that may seem unpolished to me but could be something great to the public once heard. i am an artist.
for the audience, i’m the one.
all because my cat bit my earphones.
I would sing
because I'm good at that
boy, do I have pipes.
but I'm terrified
upon this stage
all of you looking at me
Part of me thinks it would be fun
if not for my parents in the audience
looking at me expectantly.
I've never felt at ease
doing it for them.
That open mic keeps standing there
posters, stages, coffee shops
but I can't.
I'll try anything but this.
I sometimes feel
as if my parents wish I would perform
like when we watch
'School Of Rock' or 'A Perfect Chord'.
I guess I always thought
it would go away when I got older
but it's MY choice.
I have to decide.
will I lift my voice
or stay stubbornly silent?
please sing me a
song of your most
precious memories and i
will try to sing one of
of rainy days spent
under worn down umbrellas,
of clear nights where
the constellations are
please compose me a
rhythm that will be neither
too soft nor unbearably
i am afraid unwanted
ears may hear, for i
desire to be your only
please perform for me
the show you've only
dared to execute in your
and i will dance along
as the moon does for the
stars every time they
Hard shall be your days
Gloom shall be your nights
To bring you to that point
The point of creation
A love hate situation
One can't exist without the other
Depression more than a companion
Pain is your gain
Salty tears you shall cry
Carry your burden and blessing
To obtain your title
The title of ARTIST
While others admire or criticise
This is my finest work
Until your next creation
Only free for moments short lived
For a fleeting moment in the spotlight
A brief moment on the stage
Written by Sean Achilleos 23 September 2018©
The suspense kills them
Or at least the parents who support
Awaiting for the cue
If I don't in a few, I'm gonna pass out.
So without further a due
Is it just me?
It's time to go on stage
This will be the final stand
Let us hear
Let us see
Let his voice sing
Make us understand
What it's like to be in a cage
That desire to be free
Let us lose fear
Let us find our start
Let his voice ring
In every single heart
On here I may be new
and my views few
but make no mistake
I have a point to make
And I'm here to stay
I have things to say
So show me some love
Or step aside and move .
I have found me a platform
Where I can perform .
I'll write from this podium
And use this medium
to represent and shine
As long as I have the time .
I am here to stay....
the saxophone player
wets his lips to perform
a masquerade of emotions
is the performance tonight
leave them by the door
you will not be needing them
Tonight I get to do what I was meant to do
To be who I was meant to be
And although every eyeball in every line of sight may be fixated on me
For an hour or so
That doesn’t change the fact that I
Was meant to step out this stage and to bend like a bow
As I did in the days of old
Such talent is still stretched within me
That I should perform, and that I should play, most doggedly
Until the finely threaded twine within my mind begins to unwind
And I am straight as an arrow hence
Laying on the table before, how I once had said
That I hope I can return once more for that again
But not for this I said
Not for this
Sometimes you need to stop before you can keep going. *nod nod*
Smoke scintillated by ***** lights
Scent of cheap beer and cigarettes
Arms and legs and heads and butts
In a space ejecting bravado
responding to the auricular bludgeons
plucking veins and boiling blood
arms and legs flailing like spiders
hammered by raindrops
Calloused voices scream through feedback
eking out of anguished amplifiers
while jungle drums synchronize hearts
to their frantic pulse
New friends old friends celebration
in sweaty embraces chanting screaming
stumbling outside the gates of eternity
sidewalk where we gathered round the sordid soapbox
and cast beleaguering gargantuan buildings
and endless cataclysmal streets
to prance along these old sidewalk cracks
stumbling along cigarette butts and beer cans
efflorescing under amative neon lights whose bombinate glow
tingles our skin and dazzles our eyeballs
rolling back into our skulls in the wake of ecstasy
billowing over our ambulant bodies
skipping school on a week day
braving city night life to find us in the nooks
they forgot to sweep out
where trash collects and pretends
to be unwavering and implacable
for a moment
Til it's back on the streets we spill out upon like puke
like the beer sticking to checkerboard floors
and we float home on the feedback high singing in our ears to sleep
dreaming of these ecstasies as something perennial
in punk lover's dreams
Pure when we're filthy.
Listen to Beach Slang.