Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
girasol Jan 6
My heart screams
I love you
My head interjects
F**k him
Lyda M Dec 2018
Music – she is my muse

She sings to me

Her lilting voice reaching for the heavens

And yet

It falls short as she aches for

Love – tis heart breaking and bittersweet

It is a tug of war

For the melody

Who it sings for

A back and forth,

Undecided, disconcerted

Forlorn and desolate

Madness, determination

But she is beckoned

back, restrain

Don’t hold back

[I] can’t hold back

[I’m] trying

And yet

[I’ll] fall short

“Why? Oh, why?”

Can one not sing?

Shall the muse be only thought,

Ever taught?


She sings and sings.

To fill in the desire

Of a passion unrestrained

(with restraints)

She is ineffable,

And only in silence

Can she be heard.
Beethoven Violin Concerto in D Major, Op.61 - first movement
Mystic Ink Plus Jul 2018
If there is tug of war
Between Promise Vs. Duty
Choose duty first
Genre: Rational
Theme: Don’t build 2nd thought. It’s too clear.
Frank Ruland May 2014
Oh, the Rapture! Could my skies of fire be parting to reveal a cleaner existence, or are my eyes the liars I've always feared them to be? One more look in the mirror and I may just start believing everything I've ever told myself about what I didn't know. An unsightly conundrum, I know, but I've been wondering through this labyrinth for much too long in search of pleasant fable to comfort me. A winged entity on each shoulder softly giving me directions, but I can't look far enough to the side to see which one bears the horns and which one bears the halo. They both promise me Heaven, if I can find a way through the other's Hell. But that's the problem with voices telling you what to do--it becomes more about them than it ever was about you. It becomes a mental tug-of-war in which you begin to come apart at the seems. It's all about who gets what when the piñata splits open. They'll fight to grab as many parts of you as they can get their hands on and do their best to piece them together into ideal versions of you with only fragments of a whole. Then you're stuck being two people at once, while you get a front row seat at watching two worlds break apart. Their remnants become the fallout that will soon smother the sorry semblance of an existence you're already suffocating under. And just beneath the surface of your follies lies the realization that it could have all been avoided if you had just said, "I probably shouldn't."

— The End —