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#hmmm
You can tell me it'll never rain,   but it won't keep the rain from pouring.. or doubt the wings while a mocking bird sings, but it won't keep the bird from soaring.. You can doubt the sun on a cloudy day And, from the sea, maybe doubt the dunes Or tell me there's no God in heaven Who heals my internal wounds. You can doubt the fate of an injured deer right up till you see him prancing And you can tell me that I'll never walk but you'll never keep my feet from dancing
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Nov 30, 2024
Nov 30, 2024 at 12:30 AM UTC
Dancing in a 10% Chance
haiku 24/4/1b you responsible for random people or not hmmmm
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Apr 1, 2024
Apr 1, 2024 at 10:24 PM UTC
Untitled
James Sebastian Middlemarch was a prodigy. No other way to say it in truth, And those who knew him and his gift Were in agreement that he was destined to reach The apogee of the musical world, Though he, even at a very young age, discouraged such talk, Sometimes offhandedly, but at other times Quite insistently indeed, for, even then, He had the constant, gnawing suspicion That there was a disconnect between the harmonies (Mad, excruciating, yet unspeakably lovely) Which scampered unfettered around his head And those he could bring forth on the piano or viola. Nonetheless, his aptitude pulled him along Through longitude and latitude, To Julliard, then Paris and Vienn, maixing with others Marked by their provincial peers as The Next One. Through all this time, The sonatas, concertos, and full-blown symphonies Danced on in his mind without restraint or retreat Yet, when he tried to corral them onto paper, They kicked and bucked and spit out the bit In spurious sixteenths and turgid quarters Which cantered along in pedestrian time signatures. These pieces (the “sad imitations”, as he called them) Were performed on more than the odd occasion, But on smaller stages by undistinguished orchestras, And those freelancers dispatched by features editors In the Rochesters and Pensacolas of the world (Small-timers themselves, yet wholly without sympathy) Would cluck and sigh dismissively in their reviews That the works were derivative, With easily discernible bits of Strauss and Schumann (Clara Schumann, according to one acerbic small-town wit) Scattered here and there, And they were unanimous in their belief and opinion As to the minor nature of his presence on the musical landscape. After some years, he stopped publishing his works Which made him even less of an afterthought Than he had been at his low-slung zenith. He continued to play with some regional symphonies, Where he was deeply loved by his colleagues, As he was modest in the face of praise, But never sparing in dispensing kindness in return, And to all appearances the frenzied siren airs Which had ridden roughshod over his psyche for so many decades Had ceased at last, but after his death, one of his sons discovered, Squatting surreptitiously under a mound of ancient antimacassars, Several trunks containing untold scores of sheet music, (Updated versions of earlier work, New pieces abandoned in exasperation) Which sat in mute testament to the difficult labor Of unfastening onself from the yoke of being ordinary.
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Dec 4, 2020
Dec 4, 2020 at 2:55 PM UTC
a handful of ordinary compositions
James Sebastian Middlemarch was a prodigy. No other way to say it in truth, And those who knew him and his gift Were in agreement that he was destined to reach The apogee of the musical world, Though he, even at a very young age, discouraged such talk, Sometimes offhandedly, but at other times Quite insistently indeed, for, even then, He had the constant, gnawing suspicion That there was a disconnect between the harmonies (Mad, excruciating, yet unspeakably lovely) Which scampered unfettered around his head And those he could bring forth on the piano or viola. Nonetheless, his aptitude pulled him along Through longitude and latitude, To Julliard, then Paris and Vienn, maixing with others Marked by their provincial peers as The Next One. Through all this time, The sonatas, concertos, and full-blown symphonies Danced on in his mind without restraint or retreat Yet, when he tried to corral them onto paper, They kicked and bucked and spit out the bit In spurious sixteenths and turgid quarters Which cantered along in pedestrian time signatures. These pieces (the “sad imitations”, as he called them) Were performed on more than the odd occasion, But on smaller stages by undistinguished orchestras, And those freelancers dispatched by features editors In the Rochesters and Pensacolas of the world (Small-timers themselves, yet wholly without sympathy) Would cluck and sigh dismissively in their reviews That the works were derivative, With easily discernible bits of Strauss and Schumann (Clara Schumann, according to one acerbic small-town wit) Scattered here and there, And they were unanimous in their belief and opinion As to the minor nature of his presence on the musical landscape. After some years, he stopped publishing his works Which made him even less of an afterthought Than he had been at his low-slung zenith. He continued to play with some regional symphonies, Where he was deeply loved by his colleagues, As he was modest in the face of praise, But never sparing in dispensing kindness in return, And to all appearances the frenzied siren airs Which had ridden roughshod over his psyche for so many decades Had ceased at last, but after his death, one of his sons discovered, Squatting surreptitiously under a mound of ancient antimacassars, Several trunks containing untold scores of sheet music, (Updated versions of earlier work, New pieces abandoned in exasperation) Which sat in mute testament to the difficult labor Of unfastening onself from the yoke of being ordinary.
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53
Our own eyes can never really see the self; We must always rely on others to look. Only through each other can we truly know The shape of our character and the color of our essence.
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Mar 25, 2020
Mar 25, 2020 at 12:48 AM UTC
Without "I"
Ok it burned on a seven or so million dollar renovation but since the press and high demands they reached out, to every single nation The Government owns the place so no wonder it burnt down but now the coffers overflow a billion or so came round It just makes me wonder conspiracies that might be arson in cathedrals old so much more money see
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Apr 22, 2019
Apr 22, 2019 at 11:17 PM UTC
Notre Dammmmmmn!
What do i love? . . . That Who do i love? . . . You When did i love? . . . Then Where did i love? . . . There Why did i love? . . .
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Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 5:16 AM UTC
Thoughts
1:30 AM is when my head starts hurting and my body feels heavy with burdens My soul feels hollow And I don't really know who to talk to Because it's a little late to call anyone I'm googling weird things And making my bucket list Coming up with distractions for weeks to come Because it is my only escape from my inexplicable pain and sadness
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Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 3:31 AM UTC
Way too late, way too empty
Time has passed old friend And a call across miles All came to an amicable end Once again I heard you smile Catching up is good at times Wrapped in warmth across the wire Listening to the sweet talk chime Fading that you were a liar Still more than a footnote so it seems I stained your heart with mere affection I'm glad that I dance through your dreams It pretties up the recollection Thank you dear old friend of mine I love that you just had to call I miss the good ways we entwined The rest, I just don't miss at all
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Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 5:18 PM UTC
Out of the Blue
Maybe I was meant to be alone. I don't mean a solitary creature. Friends are great, people need interactions- without them, we go crazy. But, maybe I just wasn't meant for this- happily ever after stuff. That's not to say I haven't been in love. But it never lasts. Even in the happiest moments. I question it. Maybe I'm better off alone.
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Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 10:23 PM UTC
The Truth
Sometimes I'm crazy. Some days I'm in love. Other times I'm wise. Days blend together. And I'm forever alone. Dawn is breaking. My heart shatters. My life is made of glass. Time never lasts. Crazy people die fast. Let it go. You're alone, now.
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Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 12:18 AM UTC
Sometimes...
Shining armor rusts internally from salted tears of discontent
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May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 12:12 PM UTC
From the Inside
It's always been you. The one my mind wanders back to. Sometimes it takes months, or even years but we always end up back in the same place, like nothings changed. Laughing and joking, like we haven't been down this road before. Catching up like we saw each other last week, not last year. Why is it after all this time, that your name brings the most anticipation, the most excitement? We already know how this story ends, yet we continue, we try again.
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May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 10:26 PM UTC
You.