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kokoro 5d
I love his sound
the sound of his guitar,
plugged in and ringing after him.
I love the sound of his finger plucking the strings,
bouncing off and vibrating.
I love all instruments,
all kinds of genres and songs,
but my favorite song is the one where his guitar plays.
Mxxie Dec 2024
Strings dig into my wrists,
Carving control into fragile flesh
Moving me to their will.

I bend.
I spin.
I dance.

I despise it.

"Be this," she demands,
"Do that," he whispers,
Their voices tangle in the threads,
Pulling tighter, cutting deeper,
Moving me to their will.

I bend.
I spin.
I dance.

I loathe it

Moving my lips
The sighs
The whispers
The mutters
It isn't me.

Tugging my wrists
The twist
The tether
The weight
It isn’t me.

Bending my knees
The creak
The lurch
The stumble
It isn’t me.

Turning my head
The tilt
The ****
The blank stare
It isn’t me.

Carving my chest
The hollow
The knots
The splinters
It isn’t me.

Tearing my legs
The sway
The drag
The fall
It isn’t me.

I bend.
I spin.
I dance.

I hate it.

I'm just a hollow puppet.
Bound by twisted strings.

Nothing more
Nothing less.

The Liquitex that smudges my face
It draws new smiles,
It spills new tears,
Blurring the lines of who I was.

Each brushstroke rewrites my skin,
A hollowed mask of painted lies,
Cracks forming where the truth once lived.

It stains my cheeks in hues I don’t choose,
Bright reds that scream,
Deep blues that ache,
Colors bleeding into someone else’s story.

The varnish sets,
Am I trapped beneath it?
Just a mere doll of their design?

I bend.
I spin.
I dance.

I despise it.

And the fingers that type these words?
The letters
The sentences
The poem

It doesn't feel real.

A hollow shell of bone and sinew,
Moving without meaning,
Guided by unseen hands.

That's all I am.

I don't feel.
I don't love.
I don't dream.
I don't care.
I don't exist.

I bend.
I spin.
I dance.

I loathe it.
ryn Jul 2023
.

I’ve grieved…
Not so much over what was lost.
More so the way
I tried to bury these memories.

Candles…
that for a time once,
stoked hale,
unflickering flames.

All tied to strings
that lead straight to my heart
and all partially buried…
In many a shallow grave.

•••

Perhaps because a deeper tomb
would mean a lesser purchase
and looser grip on these strings.

I never could let go…


.
Monika Jan 2023
Ah the stillness.
I start to feel it.
The strain it causes my joints
hurts the same
with the friction of motion.

Ah the strings.
They start to feel it.
The tension from the stillness
will force them
to break
like when it controls my limbs.



The strings eventually snap.

My arms turn limp.
My legs turn limp.
My neck turns limp.



The joints then soon cracked.


My arms fall off.
My legs fall off.

My head falls off.
LC Apr 2022
they stuff "yes, no matter what" / "you're always wrong" / "what will people say?" / into a flimsy puppet skin / rigidly moving the strings in one direction / whenever someone comes over / they mount the puppet on the wall / proudly showing off their prized creation.
but when their eyes come to a close / the puppet feels scorching strings on its shoulders / it reaches inside / gutted by what it sees / one by one / it examines each phrase / it takes everything out / replaces it with "no" / "I am not always wrong or right" / "what do I say?" / and slowly snips the strings off its shoulders / so it can walk freely.
Escapril Day 14! Prompt: taxidermy (the art of preparing, stuffing, and mounting the skins of animals with a lifelike effect).
This is my take on the prompt! Thank you for reading.
Kai Jan 2022
In the reserved room built with teenage angst
sat a guitar waiting for a dear friend.
My quick fingers were tentative to touch.
I listened to the chords I brought about—
played a tangle labyrinth. I wish to quit.

Was that a G sharp or a B flat note?
Frustration brews like a furious storm.
I wanted to toss everything away.
This instrument? Not mine. And that is that.
Too embarrassed by my ineptitude.

I loathe guitars! I cannot play them right.
That riff was supposed to be heavy metal.
Not math rock, but it’s enough to settle.
That might change if I use guitar pedals.
Cmon, keep your head high. Let it stay bright.

A friendship with my guitar has begun.
There are bounds I’m still trying not to reach.
And one day, I’ll be good enough to teach
or possess an audience at the beach.
Hey, the guitar is becoming quite fun!

****, metal. I’m a stoner rock artist.
I can play bends, solos, and vibrato.
Look, I even came up with a motto:
to thrive, start with anger in a bottle.
With my advice, you will go the farthest.

My fingers’ pink blush irritates my skin.
Still eager to play. I ignore the sore.
It doesn’t feel like a chore anymore.
This instrument? It’s mine. It led to doors.
It helped me find heaven and become kin.
Learning the guitar's not easy, eh?
Danielle Aug 2021
There is another thing that the sky is covering up to, parallels are invisible strings that connect us.

You are a myth that the muses talk about,
they tell me how far the stars
that I wouldn't reach you
and how I wander my hands on my brokenness.
It was the traces of how beautiful the blue in your eyes
and the memories of red lanterns
lighting up our way home,
I feel the terror of we might forget
the sound of the eerie cold night.

Parallels are constellations in the skies as if we are remnants of history,
Each night we wished we exist.
Brumous Jun 2021
Love can't be the solution for all,
I'm alright dancing alone,
waltzing with echos in the halls

It might be lonely,
but I am enough to keep me company

Stay away from me,
If love would hurt, I'd love myself first
Shut the door; needing it isn't a necessity.

I'll have the red string untied,
free from the boundaries of love
Taking a meaningless joyride,
from dawn to midnight
taking in the world so wide
It's enough having a friend by my side.

-Br.
Pas Seul - /ˌpä ˈsəl/
a dance for one person.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uyN6o_Eyfl8
I prefer listening to songs while writing. This song feels calming since I've been blasting loud songs this past few days. I also used this song so that I can write it with a tad melody of some sort.
Danielle Jun 2021
My footsteps were memorizing
the cracks of the floor,
vines creep along the grounds
as the constellations,
they are the patterns to my wonderland.

Gold flush,
rose blush
You are beautiful in my memories
and I unlocked  the box of my dreams,
wounds are deeper than to what I feel
Stitched with the strings I tied to you,
People are vines as they fall in despair.
Words left unsaid
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