#concerto - Hello Poetry

There in the time, were you. Burning like light and moving like darkness. For being complete is nothing less than nothingness. Maybe the hair strands are meant to cage the breeze. It is after all not an innocent brush of a passer-by. But a gaze, burning through every book employed to cover art, and every scent used as a decoy. A drizzle of steam on a melting face. An enactment of a blatantly romanticized pull, tugging at every vein to stand out in utter disbelief, what on earth befell the first hand that touched another? There is a breeze stuck in your hair. "How?" Just like a bird begging to be free, although aware that the wilderness will be its death. Maybe cinders are what birthed most of us. And instead of being cherished, we were set ablaze. And just like a volcano, we forgot how to erupt, we found peace in drifting arms. Although somewhat boiling, we were frozen to fever. Maybe we aren't showers and sunlight but floods and hurricanes. I've been searching for a window to a day, when words will have faces. Smudged, smiling and shy. All I found was a peephole to the midnight, when faces won't have words. We can but touch glass to reminisce the hand held on the bridge behind a poster promising a longer summer My words need meaning, they said. A profound lack of lustre is ******* the verses dry. The absence of a will to not frame riddles, is murdering every blot of ink in red. A noose hangs low from the title, and reaches the name by the time the sentences end. Every word comes as a punch of flesh on stone, unnecessary. A lucky draw of words thrown about for a prize less lottery. What is more beautiful than an autumn of mess? More meaningful than a heartache of happiness, a nosebleed of ecstasy, a pint of pain with gin and love? More laborious than saying everything and nothing? Time is a fretboard. "How?" When we kissed, couldn't you hear the first note of the concerto?

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Nov 27, 2020

Nov 27, 2020 at 3:47 PM UTC

aryansrivastava09

The Litter Of Vivaldi

There in the time, were you. Burning like light and moving like darkness. For being complete is nothing less than nothingness. Maybe the hair strands are meant to cage the breeze. It is after all not an innocent brush of a passer-by. But a gaze, burning through every book employed to cover art, and every scent used as a decoy. A drizzle of steam on a melting face. An enactment of a blatantly romanticized pull, tugging at every vein to stand out in utter disbelief, what on earth befell the first hand that touched another? There is a breeze stuck in your hair. "How?" Just like a bird begging to be free, although aware that the wilderness will be its death. Maybe cinders are what birthed most of us. And instead of being cherished, we were set ablaze. And just like a volcano, we forgot how to erupt, we found peace in drifting arms. Although somewhat boiling, we were frozen to fever. Maybe we aren't showers and sunlight but floods and hurricanes. I've been searching for a window to a day, when words will have faces. Smudged, smiling and shy. All I found was a peephole to the midnight, when faces won't have words. We can but touch glass to reminisce the hand held on the bridge behind a poster promising a longer summer My words need meaning, they said. A profound lack of lustre is ******* the verses dry. The absence of a will to not frame riddles, is murdering every blot of ink in red. A noose hangs low from the title, and reaches the name by the time the sentences end. Every word comes as a punch of flesh on stone, unnecessary. A lucky draw of words thrown about for a prize less lottery. What is more beautiful than an autumn of mess? More meaningful than a heartache of happiness, a nosebleed of ecstasy, a pint of pain with gin and love? More laborious than saying everything and nothing? Time is a fretboard. "How?" When we kissed, couldn't you hear the first note of the concerto?

17

Up and down, play keys in forte, Faster and faster, only by ear heard. Cantabile, fortissimo, piano, fine, A variety of gloom and love in tone. Echoes all over the wall you feel, Majestic and grand tells a tale of old. Vibrato, detache, pizzicato, trill, Its heartbreaking voice pouring out its soul. Quiet and smooth, the wind blows through, Glints of silver, brass, and gold. Repeat the variation and the solo too, Then continue at coda big and bold. Beethoven, Mozart, Handel, Bach, Music speaks what these quadrants lack.

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Feb 21, 2018

Feb 21, 2018 at 10:32 AM UTC

LManagram

Concerto

Up and down, play keys in forte, Faster and faster, only by ear heard. Cantabile, fortissimo, piano, fine, A variety of gloom and love in tone. Echoes all over the wall you feel, Majestic and grand tells a tale of old. Vibrato, detache, pizzicato, trill, Its heartbreaking voice pouring out its soul. Quiet and smooth, the wind blows through, Glints of silver, brass, and gold. Repeat the variation and the solo too, Then continue at coda big and bold. Beethoven, Mozart, Handel, Bach, Music speaks what these quadrants lack.

14

do you honestly believe that just because she has those infamous violin hips that gives you any right to play her? you’ll be in for a rude awakening when you finally realize no sweet harmony will come from her you will not hold her by her delicate neck and drag your worn bow across her thin, ****** strings as if she was the first, or last orchestra instrument of yours do not forget about deep viola, and intuitive cello do not mock mighty trumpet and jazzy sax with your tenuous conductor’s wand you are no master of a spectacular concerto. go away Amadeus, you’ve lost your mind if you can sit down comfortably and think you won’t have to pay for defacing every instrument in this precious ensemble you once had. -11/13/17 c.m.

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Nov 13, 2017

Nov 13, 2017 at 1:43 PM UTC

secrxtstotell

****** strings

do you honestly believe that just because she has those infamous violin hips that gives you any right to play her? you’ll be in for a rude awakening when you finally realize no sweet harmony will come from her you will not hold her by her delicate neck and drag your worn bow across her thin, ****** strings as if she was the first, or last orchestra instrument of yours do not forget about deep viola, and intuitive cello do not mock mighty trumpet and jazzy sax with your tenuous conductor’s wand you are no master of a spectacular concerto. go away Amadeus, you’ve lost your mind if you can sit down comfortably and think you won’t have to pay for defacing every instrument in this precious ensemble you once had. -11/13/17 c.m.

27

1909, on top of the dragon. Marigolds whipping a tepid fug in this small room of stringy daylight. That place where we fell in love. Where I dropped a hot cup of tea on my pants And we ate sushi on the beach. I love the beach. I am not ready for the ice festival or your new boyfriend. He smells like bad disco and old people. This piano concerto that I play before bed, before awakening, I have your black dresser drawer in my bedroom, It glistens of our days of Jasmine and Roses. My mind blurs stories of you, her, and the other girl. Rad violin songs, a friend from Argentina has introduced me to Mystify me, I cannot hear straight or stand still. I have acquired A gift for shivering. Still I can feel your talons raking up my spine. Two fingers! Where? Why? How did you do that thing with your mouth? I count upwards from you and in my peaking hours of misfortune, I Never come back down to earth's giant centrality of duel existence. My gut expands into my chest, my nervous system and anxiety is All of you, a lot of her, and none of the other girl. I make half inch black markings on the wall, this curse of feeling and not forgetting That never goes away.

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Apr 26, 2014

Apr 26, 2014 at 5:45 AM UTC

martin-narrod

1909

1909, on top of the dragon. Marigolds whipping a tepid fug in this small room of stringy daylight. That place where we fell in love. Where I dropped a hot cup of tea on my pants And we ate sushi on the beach. I love the beach. I am not ready for the ice festival or your new boyfriend. He smells like bad disco and old people. This piano concerto that I play before bed, before awakening, I have your black dresser drawer in my bedroom, It glistens of our days of Jasmine and Roses. My mind blurs stories of you, her, and the other girl. Rad violin songs, a friend from Argentina has introduced me to Mystify me, I cannot hear straight or stand still. I have acquired A gift for shivering. Still I can feel your talons raking up my spine. Two fingers! Where? Why? How did you do that thing with your mouth? I count upwards from you and in my peaking hours of misfortune, I Never come back down to earth's giant centrality of duel existence. My gut expands into my chest, my nervous system and anxiety is All of you, a lot of her, and none of the other girl. I make half inch black markings on the wall, this curse of feeling and not forgetting That never goes away.

20