Music for empty apartments
Heard only in the winter
Of the soul
The deepest, coldest part
Where the distant melody
Is omnipresent, dark and low.

Music for the heart and mind
Drifting on the breeze,
And soft and gentle sobs
Heard only by those
Alone with their thoughts,
Swimming in the thoughts of others.
Missing ones held dear
Clinging to memories
Playing them over
and over
and over
So as not to let them go...

Like music
For empty apartments
With empty beds
And empty souls.
Music so unheard, it is nearly lost
Yet to those who play it,
It is deafening.

Teri zulfon k chav mei
chamakta yeh chand sa chehra,

Aab isse jyada mai tujse aur kuch na keh raha.

Sunane ko bahut kuch hai
Par sun ne ko koi nahi.

Mana galti thi meri
Kya mai Maafi k layak hu nahi?

I remember living in metaphors
Seeing things as they really weren't
Finding beauty in the negligible

Knowing all too well
That it would never be enough
But it wouldn't hurt to try

Except it did hurt to try
I've still got scars from my pen
And bruises from your words

I don't remember how to heal
And I forgot how to rhyme
And my poetry is pathetic

I wanted to be a writer
But words are strangers to me now
I can't play with them anymore

So I'll replace them with silence
But silence hurts even more
It cuts deeper than any noise

This is the first poem I've written in months
Writer's block is a myth
I never ran out of ideas

I ran out of words
And metaphors don't do my ideas justice
Because they were real

Heavy and solid
Sitting on your ribcage
Breathing down your neck

They were physical
Even if you couldn't see them
You could feel them

Metaphorically speaking
We fell apart
Like a blown down house of cards

Literally we were fine
As fine as we could get
We just chose silence over words

It's been so long. X
Floortje 3d

It's like the silence, but like the sound.
It's like missing you, while you're there.
It's like everything, and nothing at all.
It's like us, but without you.

It's like us, but without you.

the dead silence of the room
harbors the least alive person ever known.
no light slips in,
and no natural breaths are heard.
it seems that the brain is overactive
but the heart doesn't beat.
this is an unusual case
that's seen far too often.
the body is still
yet the eyes linger on a few objects.
what a tragic case.

originally written 6/8/16

The man that walks against the grain is silent, they are all silent.
The burn, so cold, in the fields of white snow and ice, they flee.
There is nothing more; it all is quiet.

The tails of rats tucked carefully between their knees,
and the frost freezing them stiff, they whimper; but,
the man that walks against the grain is silent, they are all silent.

The frost bite burns the skin and recoils the blood.
It leaves no marks of what it is and where it comes from –
there is nothing more; it all is quiet.

Those rats can burn or freeze; he does not care for such things.
He holds no words for wrong doings of rats, such cowardice,
and it remains – the man that walks against the grain is silent, they are all silent.

It’s not that he cannot say words, and scold frozen rats –
split creatures – for he can; but he walks on white roads and remains hushed.
There is nothing more; it all is quiet.

Even with open mouth and moving tongue,
the man that walks against the grain is silent, all is silent.
There is nothing more; it all is quiet.
He is nothing, they are nothing, and all around are mute – Silence.

Though it swallows our friends, the grave never speaks
And our voices can’t reach them now; they’re buried too far down
It’s difficult to imagine how dark it is for you, I guess this was something you had to go through
What’s it like, being free? Is it like a dream?
You never liked the noise, the ruckus and all the ploys
I guess you got what you always wanted, though it all seems haunted
This world seems a little darker to me too, of my cold grave it’s a little preview
Your memory will die now that you’re gone, inevitable like the going of dawn
This journey without you, I wonder if it even matters whether I do
The birds sing as before, I see when I’m gone there’ll be no uproar
With you in silence, to the earth I return and bring some balance
As it was so it will be, a life is gone and gives another its key
This life is pointless as can be, but it defines our eternity
Soon silence comes and we leave this place, so toil for the next and for this grace

From my book, "Aimless Wanderer"
avalon 4d

silence lies in darkness
where fears are birthed and hid
mem'ries leap from echoes
as shadows creep from sin

my loathing of twilight hours.

The door is partly open,
Smell of cigarette in the air,
Lying around crushed can,
Not a living soul present there,
The TV displays static,
The sound a blare,
It lights the room monochromatic,
Heavy pressure in the air,
A couch opposite the static,
In the seat a stain,
Next to it lying open,
A book by Mark Twain,
Lots of unopened letters by the door,
Old newspapers scattered on the floor,
The walls are cracked,
Water seepage,
The fan is creaking,
Swinging but not spinning,
Tied to the fan a rope,
At the noose a head,
Messy hair Stubby beard,
A soul who lost hope,
His feet off the ground,
And next to him,
On the floor,
A bent over,
Wooden chair,
No movement in the room,
To disturb the air,
And hangth there,
A man who tried to reach,
The toppled chair.

Wrote this in a messed up state of mind at 1:00am

I can't sleep

No, not because of the demons that normally torment me.
Tonight is different.

I creep downstairs
Footsteps light, floorboards creaking slightly.
My father is playing Fleetwood Mac on the loudspeakers.

Over Stevie Nicks' smooth, crooning voice I tell him to turn it down, in barely a whisper;
"I'm tired, dad.
Let me sleep.
Play it tomorrow."

I walk into the kitchen and mother is there
Awake, still.
For the both of us.
Both of her useless children.

I take a glass of milk and sit beside her by the dining table,
Jewels strewn across a cloth,
And listen to her excitedly tell me about her designs
With my eyelids half mast

I finish my milk and walk away
A silent goodnight escapes my lips, barely open.
I leave her to her work.

I take a glance at my father; he's watching The View now.
I walk up the stairs again, silent as a mouse.

I can't sleep.

It's the demons now
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