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AE Mar 2021
I leave empty spaces of crowded stillness
In hopes that past promises can sew themselves
into the embroidered stitches
of your wise words
And you speak to me, unbound
A heavy heart in your hand
And I carry it, quietly, searching for its rhythm
Juno Feb 2021
There’s a specific rhythm to dancing
which only a dancer knows.
The thrill of a strong jump,
or a good pointing of the toes.

A tap of pointe shoes on the floor
where usually sounds a thunk,
or the success of a hard spin
when you thought you’d run out of luck.
I Stanislavski my way through life
I am and I am not
a piece of *****
I put myself in situations
scenarios racing through my head
and try to imagine
exactly what it would feel like
to be dead

Experiencing
my inner theatrical sense of self
dynamism;
the activeness of an energetic personality
how sad to know
that this is not
nor will it ever be my faculty
"Hi my names Suzan, I work at Applebee's."
It's 7:27am
and I still haven't slept
it's probably for the best
even when I sleep I get no rest
I wake up in sweat and out of breath
if sleep was really the cousin of death
I'd be inclined to get more of it
wakefulness is stress but sleep
sleep is something else
sleep is torture for the depressed
sleep is something you tell yourself you need
when your world comes crashing down
when you see no need to get dressed
sleep is what you fall in to
when there's no more stimulation
no more coffee, no more elation
something you do post ******
usually from *******
if you could see my dreams
you'd think of Stephen King's
The Shawshank Redemption
except without redemption
just the seeping hateful retention
Melony Martinez Feb 2021
I am lulled to sleep by my heart's beat
I awake to a rhythm in my mind
The same rhythm I have been seeking
My soul, a rare drummer
Pounding out a cadence
A call to find that familiar rhythm
One heart beating in tempo with my own
Two drummers - one song
A simple march, a soulmate's march
written March 2004
Unpolished Ink Jan 2021
Music the folder
and holder of sound

Rhythm the binder
that winds it around

Lyrics are papers
where meaning is found
The prompt was rhythm-so I kind of got stationery into my head
hxzin Dec 2020
what is there to life but
pleasure

like smoke sweet and thick
in my lungs,
fruitful wine that graces my tongue and
twirls my mind, laughter
and friendship that fill my evenings
and apartment,
dancing without a care to ryhthms and lovers
with soft lips and solid bodies

hr.
just romanticising life a tad to get through lockdown
MisfitOfSociety Dec 2020
Medea,
Tell a vision,
You lie and we listen.

Medea,
Truth is fiction,
Make the lie our addiction.

Medea,
Sorceress in blue,
Tell me what is true.

Tell a vision to me,
Make the lie our reality.

Tell a vision to me.
The truth is a fantasy.

Goddess of illusion.
Tell a vision.

Cast a spell on me,
I am your zombie.
Niki Gray Nov 2020
A pure and genuine heart
in a masked world.
An honest rhythm
beating true.
Sending the blood of life
pulsing through my veins
Allowing my spirit and
body to rejuvenate and renew.
Thank you to all who love and support me.  Family and friends I would not be me without you.  Happy Thanksgiving!
Jaicob Nov 2020
"Tick, tick, tick,"
The little watch shouts.
He sits inside my pocket
And awaits me drawing him out.

Tic, tic, tic
It's time for me to rest.
Society and anxiety
Give me too much stress.

"Tick, tick, tick,"
His voice puts me to sleep.
I love his perfect rhythms-
The perfect time he keeps.

Tic, tic, tic
The second I put him away,
The vicious tics come back
I wish they wouldn't stay.

"Tick, tick, tick,"
Directly into my ear.
The only way to stay 'normal'
Is through the rhythm I hear.

Tic, tic, tic
Whenever I am stressed,
The painful tics come back
And cannot be suppressed.

"Tick, tick, tick,"
The second-hand marches on.
Enduring all his hardships,
He's rewound every dawn.

Tic, tic, tic
My fists are bruised and aching.
"What a crazy spaz"
Society's gaze is saying.

"Tick, tick, tick,"
My lovely watch proclaims.
I whisper the rhythm back;
The perfection keeps me sane.

- - -

I need my pocket watch beside me.
Though it may not seem I do.
You simply do not understand
The troubles I'm pushing through.

The terrible sounds and motions
Are so very, very draining.
The worry to always suppress,
Wears out by the day's ending.

My watch sits beside me,
Ticking as I write this
(Ticking so I don't have to),
And reading as a witness.
This poem is about how stress and anxiety often make my tics worse. I always keep a pocket watch with me, however, so I can pull it out and place it near my ear to listen to the perfect ticking noise it makes. This very unceasing rhythm is what keeps me from having a breakdown most of the time.
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