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Colm Jul 2016
Though weary eyes are still worth seeing,
Sometimes the sight isn't worth the time.

I'd encourage you instead to rest,
And escape from yourself within your mind.

Just go close your eyes and be at peace,
Embrace the darkness with remind.

Like a weary ball of worn out string,
Sleep quietly until you unwind.
When I'm tired... I unwind. :D
Cyrus Gold Jun 2016
The eyes of the luthier are fixated
on the degrading and poorly fitted Dejacques bridge,
a small piece of wood that arches
at the top of the damaged instrument -
a prized 18th century treasure
originating from Brescia, a city in Northern Italy.

With a napkin in hand lightly
soaked in an oily substance,
he unhooks the piece,
then takes a replacement bridge
perfectly fitted for it. He cracks a smile.

This viola d'amore has seen better days,
with usage and prolonged handling
wearing the value of the instrument down.

Only an expert can bring a worn-out bird
seeking its once gracious and hypnotic voice
back to life with care and precision.

This luthier is a* surgeon,
a master at installing a sound-post replacement,
without gouging or harming
the quality of the instrument in the process.

This luthier is a
 listener;
as he retrieves and dusts off a case
filled with a spare set of strings,
he installs and finely tunes them
but never over the desired pitch.

Tense and crucial,
like the rising crescendo of a string quartet,
he strums the new strings for evidence of life,
listening to and directing the cry of each one,
like a composer.

This luthier is a
 healer,
repairing the cracks of the violin
by implementing a tactic he learned
on his many trips to Crawley, England,
where his teacher had once trained him;

by using cubic, wooden studs and small clamps,
he gains better control at closing the cracks just enough
to lace the opening with an adhesive
with little to no force or pressure.

This luthier is an
 artist,
*repairing the instruments
that yearn for the sound of music,
their very raison d'être.

His string and wooden patients
scream in agony for healing and peace
with voices unheard to the people,
but deafening to him.

He leaves his signature on each new patient
as their once damaged and lifeless souls
dance to the tune of his work,
healing them, promising the advent
of a future performance.

Let them rejoice. Let the music soar once again.
I love music. LOVE it.
Jack Jenkins May 2016
I'm nothing more
than a tapering string
going into nothingness
I’m a kite
Attached to a string
Moments of freedom
Reveling in the feeling of the wind
Until a tug
And a pull
Keeps you in place
Reminds me
I’m not truly free

Someone won’t you set me free?
Someone won’t you help me?
Loosen the string
Loosen your hold
So I can fly free
Away from here
Away from the string holding me here

Let me be an untethered kite
I could fly free
Explore the world
Bring joy
With my flashy colors
My vibrant patterns

Instead I am under the control
Of those who keep me
Who decide when I have a few minutes
Riding on the freedom of the wind

I wish I had arms
To reach down
With a pair
Of gleaming scissors
To cut my tether

I wish I had a voice
To tell them what I want
What I think
Because they won’t listen
Won’t pay attention
To my relentless fight
To my constant struggle
Against the confines of my rope

Won’t someone set me free?
Can’t somebody help me?
To become an untethered kite?
K Balachandran Feb 2016
Her lubricious bikini has full of criss- crossing fancy strings,
the central idea indeed, seems to be not concealing any skin.
when you pull at any one,
the whole becomes undone,
can you blame if the focus of the action shifts to other things?
Dhaye Margaux Feb 2016
I thought the storm was over
And the sun now shines on me
Why the sky is dark again?
Still, I am not free

I beg You, I pray
Why I have this kind of heart?
It is easy to be broken
My life was torn apart

This pain, these tears
Won't they  just stay away?
I did my best to be humane
Do I deserve to be this way?

Another rainy days here
So heavy downpour I see
Not the rain that I've learned to love
I don't know how it came to me

I am so tired, I am so weak
I don't know if I can stand still
The last string of hope in me
Has weakened and took my will

My God, help me to understand
I still don't know how and why
My life, my heart's now broken
Oh, rainy days, this is my cry!
Getting dark again...

Musing on sadness.
E Townsend Jan 2016
14w
i believe in permanent strings
rather than stitches that come undone in a week.
about relationships
Callie Greene Jan 2016
Each loving word builds a string
But how thin and brittle is the thing!

You see my loosing my grip
so you grasp me by my hip.

"I love you," he said.
Between the lines, I read.

Attention he craved,
Attention I gave.

Love doesn't mean thing
When you have to hold on by a string.
Sierra Earle Nov 2015
These words, they conglomerate
on the page
loosely tied together
by the date
the sharpest needle
and
the finest thread
could not stitch them together
I have tried
many times
I have stabbed myself
many times
but
scraps of sting
unused words lay
loosely distorting an unforeseen design
but
if you squint
posses an open mind
then the words will seem to tighten
Could someone tell me how poetry slams work? How long are the poems supposed to be? What type of poetry is read at those types of events?
Amenisia Lopez Aug 2015
Only dolls bound by string*
and string bound to a puppeteer
**lets break free
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