the sound of the highway outside
whispers through this rain-tapped glass:

quiet and fleeting and constant,
so like wind and rain and nature,
ebbs and flows, soothes with those
highs and lows and breaks—

with no telling when it will end,
just a rhythm like sleepy breaths,
a lullaby in the making

i prefer this noise to silence
outside my window in that dark;
a vast world alive and vibrant
while i slip into muted dreams

Ok

Yes, it’s not all about love, or pain but surely it’s a metaphor for the depths of the halls we walk by ourselves amongst ourselves in order to confuse anyone that tries to wander too close to our hearts. Oh come on! Poetry is so pretentious.

To hide through rhythmic syllables, to share a sonnet with thee. To dedicate an entire repertoire of acoustic melodies in order to talk about her body?

Do not get me wrong, I love my fair share of dramatic soliloquies but it seems, to me that honesty has lost its value. Especially with writers. There’s no more truth anymore…no. It always has to develop into a complicated string of ideas. There was a time when writers were able to talk about a woman or lover or whatever, without invoking all the gods.

Learn how to love for what simply is

I eat my rice with birds and mice
I treat my nice with turds and lice
I drink my wine with pigs and swine
I write my words with prose and rhyme
I swing my club with strength and pride
I take my steps with prance and stride

I show you all now what's inside
These words I trust; I will abide.

My heartbeat's gone all wrong
A stuttering flutter of rhythmic butter
Something this *****'s been slipping on
And what is the tempo marking, dear?
Quarter note equals freakin’ infinity
It's come to my attention, I fear
I never breathed a note this long

Star, Scarred, barred from gleaming
beaming to the world, seeming
as if light has the ultimate might
to shower the glassy body with power
of being, seeing the present as it is
or is not, but cut off from the sky
Star marred, far away from home
roams, the sky in wanderlust and sorrow.

By the music and it's heavenly way into a human's soul, through the harmony of the instruments
The rhythmic sound of music has the power to fill one's heart with a certain feeling that is endless
As all the notes come together, being played accompanied by the soft tune of her voice, it sank into my heart, reflected it, cherishing, wishing in bliss that such beauty, never should end
Coming in a clear pattern which leads me to ask;
Where shall it lead to, or where does this end, alike the night, my
hopes are for this to be undawning, so that it can fill me with joy.
Overflowing with emotions, more than I am able to convey with
words or any fitting expression, my eyes shed tears, of grief.
What is it that may has touched my spirit, is it the sound, or are
the instruments responsible for this sudden heartache ?
Of course, unable to find an answer, I consume the music until the
very last note has been played and the prayer which has been sung
comes to its border, its final point where it has no meaning to continue.

~ Umi

I'm trading tender for splendor:
The loss of sweat, not-so-tragic.
I'll build up my blisters for whispers:
Spells recited in habit.
Dollars can buy what I seek:
It doesn't take many to have it.
The strange, the odd, the mystique:
The flowers painted by rabbits.
The song played by the beach:
The harp without hands to grab it.
Nature has cradled my needs:
The order created by savage.
We pay for all of these things:
Even chance has stated this adage.
I know this from my own beliefs:
The months living as addict.
They blurred, and flew on the wings:
My "needs" growing emphatic.
The basement was surely my feet:
My mind, alone in the attic.
The empty, the holes, the replete:
Filled, trading my money for magic.

‘Cause I looked up at you as
Glory shout through my ears
And lightning struck my chest.
You sat,
Entirely unaware of the shock you
Sent through me.
I battled against every tear
Forming in the wells of my eyes
As they simply stopped,
Staring at you.
Quietly. You remained, unnoticing.
Breath barely found my lips.
You wrote.
Glasses hanging from your face
Glancing the words and they rolled
On and on.
And on and on
I gazed at you.
The heaving thud of my heart
Tearing tremors through my fingertips
And they tried to convey
You.
Poorly. As if knowing their inadequacy.
Even if written in blood upon the page
Only my veins
Would know what that lightening was like.
Slowly.
Only they have felt every drop you have
Changed in me.

Let's not beat around the bush; getting drunk is fun.
However, that all depends on why you’re doing so.
Last week I drank to try and make brain going numb,
In hopes that Tesco Value lager would turn my heart to stone.
Love can hurt like hell when it’s trapped behind your eyes,
Out of fear that someone’s narrative may not involve you.
You swallow the truth, lock your jaw, make sure your tongue is tied.
The words stay stuck upon your lips - no guts to come to bloom
Love isn’t ******* Disney and it sure as hell isn’t perfect;
But when the smoke clears all I see is you, is you, is you.
And falling into pieces a thousand times would so be worth it;
If that's what it takes for a happy ending, then that is what I'll do.
     My love for you is imperfect, flawed; it has to stay concealed.
     My love for you is imperfect, sure - but ******* hell *it's real.