Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
There was Beauty in Her Silence,
So Beautiful was Her Voice.
Each Kiss She gave, was Elegant.
They made My Heart Rejoice.
Now Her Memories are an anchor,
Dragging down My Feet and Heart.
My weight, is slowly sinking.
But My Soul is not ready to Depart.
As the Clouds begin to Gather.
Thunder strikes the Ground.
My Shadow is ready for the Night.
But My Voice has lost it's Sound.
I wish, I was.....true to Her
and had, My wrongs Mended.
My Dreams, will just be Dreams.
As now Her life has Ended.
Zywa Apr 9
This caterwauling

night after night, good heavens --

it is spring again!
"Sans Pause" ("Without a Pause", 45 minute version, 2020, Jan van de Putte), performed by Joseph Puglia (violin) on April 3rd, 2022 in the Organpark

Collection "org anp ark" #198
Zywa Apr 9
They're hopping around

in the big brown cello box:

the twittering birds.
Katharina Gross (cello) plays "Aanraken" ("Touch", 2022, Jan van de Putte) and "Vorsicht, Katharina!" ("Watch out, Katharina!", 2019, Jan van de Putte), in the Organpark on April 3rd, 2022

Collection "org anp ark" #194
calypso Apr 5
he plays with my love
with the strings of his bow
it makes such a precise sound
consistently on pitch

he moves his hands
inch-perfect on strings
each tune a new sorrow
each string used
more infatuated then before
i love the sound of music, especially the violin. it always makes my heart stop and sing, on the highest pitch. it feels like floating
Snipes Mar 24
The waves crashing;

I hear fear is found in the unknown
I want to be brought to the sand at the bottom of the full moons light falling underneath optimisms pull
Even if I step in
My footprint will end up being missing

The clock tower’s bell;

I’m stuck in a fragment of time
With a fragile smile of a face of mind
The sidewalk is painted
But the mural is spilled ******
The violence is alarming
There’s gunfire in the charming

The “I love you”;

The harm of forever
Humming melodic sonics so effortlessly
Angelic high tones of prefect balance
The noise we hold onto till the last breath
The Saturday mornings when breakfast is on the table and the family is sound home
The sight of the lovely eyes screaming forever is found as our lifetime
Zack Ripley Mar 17
silence can be...awkward.
but it can also be a powerful tool.
depending on your intention, it can represent respect.
it can help you grieve.
it can make it easier to breathe.
and in a world that can bring the brutality of war
into the safety of your home,
when you feel lost for words,
like there's nothing you can say,
the sound of silence can say it all
Benjamin Jan 19
Surrounded by noise I am so used to

Enjoying the background as I pass through

Losing my sense of truth

All I really want to hear is you.
It's a poem of security. Living a life where you are surrounded by people but you only want to hear one voice. A voice that is truth to you, a love that stands out.
Allesha Eman Jan 11
I think, those wrinkles on your face
The ones you want to erase
The ones that appear with every laugh
Are waiting to be shaped
Into musical notes
That form the melody
Of the sound of healing
Moe Dec 2021
i think i know
that somewhat ulterior suggestion that you crept into my mind
like a vivid rainbow across your face
light transmissions offering up your words
your image is on repeat
and our sentiments are all quite something else
always on hindsight
on turmoil
easily not speaking
confused about what we want
overexposed to death
we each smell detached
the way we sound in the distance
often too frail to reach inside our beautiful loneliness
Jordan Gee Dec 2021
I used to hang out in abandoned buildings.
Old machine shops with puddles of rainwater pooled up on the floor;
sun or star light visible between broken and failing rafter beams
and the holes in the ceiling and my eyes.
Sometimes there would be particle board hammered into the brick
where heavy glass windows once stood;
tacked all about with bright yellow and pink postings warning
people like me to stay out and to not trespass under penalty of law.
The warning signs made me nervous because I don’t like to get in trouble.
Sometimes I would notice abandoned spaces while
driving up route 11 - Scranton, Pennsylvania.
I would park and discern through google maps on how
to gain access to yet another relic of American industry before
Wall Street reinvented slavery and shipped the spirit
of the Rust Belt to Mexico and Bangladesh and China and
various sweatshops overseas.

I had a lot of spare time to walk up and down the Wyoming Valley, northeast PA,
looking for the abandoned skeletons of buildings
into which I could furtively enter and abide.
Friday night, long week, punch the clock, no plans - no problem.
It was me and my two feet,
a long walkabout winding through the annals of my memories,
maybe some take out for dinner and all is well.
Don’t get me wrong, I had friends.
I’ve been to many places and I’ve seen many things.
I’ve faced many hardships but I always found a
posse or a partner with whom I could abide in peace and cheerful community.
That is before I would up and leave them abandoned in the wreckage of
my slow motion odyssey of self destruction;
dusting the bones of my many friendships with the many
chem trails from the many jet planes from the many tickets booked
by my father to save me from the many demons gnawing on my neck and heart.
Goodbye florida. Good bye guam. Goodbye california.

Abandoned buildings are safe.
There is a comforting predictability in their steady dilapidation.
There are no standards of social etiquette by which to adhere.
There is no small talk through which manufactured smiles show their teeth.
There are no ****** expressions and body postures to monitor
and reflect back what adjustments in countenance and demeanor I must make.

My face was a Greco-Roman mask.
Stretched and dried out, suspended somewhere between a comedy and a tragedy.
My face is the furthest frontier of my soul song,
the outermost edge of my heart.
That through which sound passes.
my face is a tan hide
Next page