#lyricism - Hello Poetry

These colours begin where your hand rests, slow and deliberate, as though the burning light itself were learning how to touch. I watch it spread ochre breathing into blue, blue loosening into ash and milk until the wall no longer knows it was ever empty. Your fingers smell of oil and rain, of crushed leaves and ironed vanilla sun, and when they graze my wrist a tremor of pigment wakes beneath my skin. Love you know, like paint does not arrive whole; it stains, it seeps, it waits for the surface to surrender. Ah you lean toward the canvas as if listening, your silence thick with turpentine fumes and dusk. The room fills with magnificent and radiant colours filled murmur, the low sound of bristles dragging their prayers across linen, a sound like wind combing oaks and pines or more waves rehearsing their collapse. I hear you breathing into the reds. I hear the yellows warm under your beating pulse. The night presses its great roots against the window, and the moon anchors between two buildings like a nail driven into dark wood. Touch follows sight the way fire follows breath. My shoulder becomes a field where your palm leaves a pale streak, unfinished, trembling, intermittent and real. The paint is cold at first, then alive, then intimate, as if it had always been waiting for a body to remember it. My skin learns new colors. My skin learns loss. You mark me the way raging storms mark trees, without cruelty, without mercy, only necessity. Each stroke says: remain. Each stroke says: depart. The smell of this room deepens further oil, dust, damp evening, the ghost of honeysuckle and Lily dew drifting in from some earlier hour of happiness. My mouth tastes of rusted light and sweet plum, of sour wine made palatable by your nearness. When you kiss me, colour moves between us like a secret animal, leaving behind a sky blue that resounds, a gold that aches. and soon Happiness bites. It leaves teeth marks. It leaves evidence and gentle bruises. Outside, the wind clutters windows as it rehearses its old grief, unmooring clouds, dragging silhouettes across the shaded street. Inside, the colours hold. They cling the way I cling to you when the storm forgets its own name. You are here. You do not run away or shy to touch. You answer me with your hands, with your wrists streaked in sunset and coal. Every day you play with the light of the universe, and tonight you spill it on me. Sight fractures the mind. I see your eyes multiplied in wet reflections of stars, smashed in the shallow pools of paint lids, my own face undone and rebuilt in pigment. I see love learning its shape through error. I see the canvas watching us back, jealous, patient perhaps even longing. It knows what will remain when we are quiet. Sound thins thick musty air. Even the wind grows careful of itself. Only the brush speaks now, its soft scraping like a bird freeing itself from sleep. My name dissolves in you, over and over. Your name rises in smoke among the colours of love. I remember you from before you existed, when love was only then a rumor in the body, a jar unopened, a figment of my unsorted imagination. Now, Taste returns in this silence, like strong salt, mineral, the faint bitterness of passion and lilac brushed with the sweet taste of honey. I lick the edge of your thumb and the colour transfers, a soft vow swallowed, a gentle vow kept. My mouth becomes a harbor where your hands rest briefly before leaving my lips again. Ah painted love, a fugitive and yet faithful. You dry slowly. You crack if rushed. You darken with time. Even so, something sings in these beautiful layers. Something survives the night’s erasures. When morning comes, pale and unsure, the colours will still be there, holding the shape of our having touched, of our having been immense and immersed for hours in one another and of having filled everything. And if later these wall forgets us, if the paint flakes, if the wind carries off our echoes to vast lands unknown, still my body will remember the way this love moved through this night, like colour across me, how it learned our shape and edge, how it said without speaking: you are mine, mine, and vanished into light of morning once more.

0

Apr 9

Apr 9, 2026 at 9:57 AM UTC

MalcolmG

Our Painted Love

These colours begin where your hand rests, slow and deliberate, as though the burning light itself were learning how to touch. I watch it spread ochre breathing into blue, blue loosening into ash and milk until the wall no longer knows it was ever empty. Your fingers smell of oil and rain, of crushed leaves and ironed vanilla sun, and when they graze my wrist a tremor of pigment wakes beneath my skin. Love you know, like paint does not arrive whole; it stains, it seeps, it waits for the surface to surrender. Ah you lean toward the canvas as if listening, your silence thick with turpentine fumes and dusk. The room fills with magnificent and radiant colours filled murmur, the low sound of bristles dragging their prayers across linen, a sound like wind combing oaks and pines or more waves rehearsing their collapse. I hear you breathing into the reds. I hear the yellows warm under your beating pulse. The night presses its great roots against the window, and the moon anchors between two buildings like a nail driven into dark wood. Touch follows sight the way fire follows breath. My shoulder becomes a field where your palm leaves a pale streak, unfinished, trembling, intermittent and real. The paint is cold at first, then alive, then intimate, as if it had always been waiting for a body to remember it. My skin learns new colors. My skin learns loss. You mark me the way raging storms mark trees, without cruelty, without mercy, only necessity. Each stroke says: remain. Each stroke says: depart. The smell of this room deepens further oil, dust, damp evening, the ghost of honeysuckle and Lily dew drifting in from some earlier hour of happiness. My mouth tastes of rusted light and sweet plum, of sour wine made palatable by your nearness. When you kiss me, colour moves between us like a secret animal, leaving behind a sky blue that resounds, a gold that aches. and soon Happiness bites. It leaves teeth marks. It leaves evidence and gentle bruises. Outside, the wind clutters windows as it rehearses its old grief, unmooring clouds, dragging silhouettes across the shaded street. Inside, the colours hold. They cling the way I cling to you when the storm forgets its own name. You are here. You do not run away or shy to touch. You answer me with your hands, with your wrists streaked in sunset and coal. Every day you play with the light of the universe, and tonight you spill it on me. Sight fractures the mind. I see your eyes multiplied in wet reflections of stars, smashed in the shallow pools of paint lids, my own face undone and rebuilt in pigment. I see love learning its shape through error. I see the canvas watching us back, jealous, patient perhaps even longing. It knows what will remain when we are quiet. Sound thins thick musty air. Even the wind grows careful of itself. Only the brush speaks now, its soft scraping like a bird freeing itself from sleep. My name dissolves in you, over and over. Your name rises in smoke among the colours of love. I remember you from before you existed, when love was only then a rumor in the body, a jar unopened, a figment of my unsorted imagination. Now, Taste returns in this silence, like strong salt, mineral, the faint bitterness of passion and lilac brushed with the sweet taste of honey. I lick the edge of your thumb and the colour transfers, a soft vow swallowed, a gentle vow kept. My mouth becomes a harbor where your hands rest briefly before leaving my lips again. Ah painted love, a fugitive and yet faithful. You dry slowly. You crack if rushed. You darken with time. Even so, something sings in these beautiful layers. Something survives the night’s erasures. When morning comes, pale and unsure, the colours will still be there, holding the shape of our having touched, of our having been immense and immersed for hours in one another and of having filled everything. And if later these wall forgets us, if the paint flakes, if the wind carries off our echoes to vast lands unknown, still my body will remember the way this love moved through this night, like colour across me, how it learned our shape and edge, how it said without speaking: you are mine, mine, and vanished into light of morning once more.

106

These colours begin where your hand rests, slow and deliberate, as though the burning light itself were learning how to touch. I watch it spread ochre breathing into blue, blue loosening into ash and milk until the wall no longer knows it was ever empty. Your fingers smell of oil and rain, of crushed leaves and ironed vanilla sun, and when they graze my wrist a tremor of pigment wakes beneath my skin. Love you know, like paint does not arrive whole; it stains, it seeps, it waits for the surface to surrender. Ah you lean toward the canvas as if listening, your silence thick with turpentine fumes and dusk. The room fills with magnificent and radiant colour’s filled murmur, the low sound of bristles dragging their prayers across linen, a sound like wind combing oaks and pines or waves rehearsing their collapse. I hear you breathing into the reds. I hear the yellows warm under your beating pulse. The night presses its great roots against the window, and the moon anchors between two buildings like a nail driven into dark wood. Touch follows sight the way fire follows breath. My shoulder becomes a field where your palm leaves a pale streak, unfinished, trembling intermittent and real. The paint is cold at first, then alive, then intimate, as if it had always been waiting for a body to remember it. My skin learns new colors. My skin learns loss. You mark me the way raging storms mark trees, without cruelty, without mercy, only necessity. Each stroke says: remain. Each stroke says: depart. The smell of this room deepens further oil, dust, damp evening, the ghost of honeysuckle and Lily dew drifting in from some earlier hour of happiness. My mouth tastes of rusted light and sweet plum, of sour wine made palletable by your nearness. When you kiss me, colour moves between us like a secret animal, leaving behind a sky blue that resounds, a gold that aches. Happiness bites. It leaves teeth marks. It leaves evidence and gentle bruises. Outside, the wind clutters windows as it rehearses its old grief, unmooring clouds, dragging silhouettes across the shaded street. Inside, the colours hold. They cling the way I cling to you when the storm forgets its own name. You are here. You do not run away or shy to touch. You answer me with your hands, with your wrists streaked in sunset and coal. Every day you play with the light of the universe, and tonight you spill it on me. Sight fractures the mind. I see your eyes multiplied in wet reflections of stars, smashed in the shallow pools of paint lids, my own face undone and rebuilt in pigment. I see love learning its shape through error. I see the canvas watching us back, jealous, patient perhaps even longing. It knows what will remain when we are quiet. Sound thins thick musty air. Even the wind grows careful of itself. Only the brush speaks now, its soft scraping like a bird freeing itself from sleep. My name dissolves in you, over and over. Your name rises in smoke among the colours of love. I remember you from before you existed, when love was only then a rumor in the body, a jar unopened, a figment of my unsorted imagination. Now, Taste returns in this silence, like strong salt, mineral, the faint bitterness of passion and lilac brushed with the sweet taste of honey. I lick the edge of your thumb and the colour transfers, a soft vow swallowed, a gentle vow kept. My mouth becomes a harbor where your hands rest briefly before leaving my lips again. Ah painted love, a fugitive and yet faithful. You dry slowly. You crack if rushed. You darken with time. Even so, something sings in these beautiful layers. Something survives the night’s erasures. When morning comes, pale and unsure, the colours will still be there, holding the shape of our having touched, of our having been immense and immersed for hours in one another and of having filled everything. And if later these wall forgets us, if the paint flakes, if the wind carries off our echoes to vast lands unknown, still my body will remember the way this love moved through this night, like colour across me, how it learned my edges, how it said without speaking: you are mine, mine, and vanished into light of morning once more.

0

Jan 12

Jan 12, 2026 at 2:47 AM UTC

MalcolmG

Painted Love

These colours begin where your hand rests, slow and deliberate, as though the burning light itself were learning how to touch. I watch it spread ochre breathing into blue, blue loosening into ash and milk until the wall no longer knows it was ever empty. Your fingers smell of oil and rain, of crushed leaves and ironed vanilla sun, and when they graze my wrist a tremor of pigment wakes beneath my skin. Love you know, like paint does not arrive whole; it stains, it seeps, it waits for the surface to surrender. Ah you lean toward the canvas as if listening, your silence thick with turpentine fumes and dusk. The room fills with magnificent and radiant colour’s filled murmur, the low sound of bristles dragging their prayers across linen, a sound like wind combing oaks and pines or waves rehearsing their collapse. I hear you breathing into the reds. I hear the yellows warm under your beating pulse. The night presses its great roots against the window, and the moon anchors between two buildings like a nail driven into dark wood. Touch follows sight the way fire follows breath. My shoulder becomes a field where your palm leaves a pale streak, unfinished, trembling intermittent and real. The paint is cold at first, then alive, then intimate, as if it had always been waiting for a body to remember it. My skin learns new colors. My skin learns loss. You mark me the way raging storms mark trees, without cruelty, without mercy, only necessity. Each stroke says: remain. Each stroke says: depart. The smell of this room deepens further oil, dust, damp evening, the ghost of honeysuckle and Lily dew drifting in from some earlier hour of happiness. My mouth tastes of rusted light and sweet plum, of sour wine made palletable by your nearness. When you kiss me, colour moves between us like a secret animal, leaving behind a sky blue that resounds, a gold that aches. Happiness bites. It leaves teeth marks. It leaves evidence and gentle bruises. Outside, the wind clutters windows as it rehearses its old grief, unmooring clouds, dragging silhouettes across the shaded street. Inside, the colours hold. They cling the way I cling to you when the storm forgets its own name. You are here. You do not run away or shy to touch. You answer me with your hands, with your wrists streaked in sunset and coal. Every day you play with the light of the universe, and tonight you spill it on me. Sight fractures the mind. I see your eyes multiplied in wet reflections of stars, smashed in the shallow pools of paint lids, my own face undone and rebuilt in pigment. I see love learning its shape through error. I see the canvas watching us back, jealous, patient perhaps even longing. It knows what will remain when we are quiet. Sound thins thick musty air. Even the wind grows careful of itself. Only the brush speaks now, its soft scraping like a bird freeing itself from sleep. My name dissolves in you, over and over. Your name rises in smoke among the colours of love. I remember you from before you existed, when love was only then a rumor in the body, a jar unopened, a figment of my unsorted imagination. Now, Taste returns in this silence, like strong salt, mineral, the faint bitterness of passion and lilac brushed with the sweet taste of honey. I lick the edge of your thumb and the colour transfers, a soft vow swallowed, a gentle vow kept. My mouth becomes a harbor where your hands rest briefly before leaving my lips again. Ah painted love, a fugitive and yet faithful. You dry slowly. You crack if rushed. You darken with time. Even so, something sings in these beautiful layers. Something survives the night’s erasures. When morning comes, pale and unsure, the colours will still be there, holding the shape of our having touched, of our having been immense and immersed for hours in one another and of having filled everything. And if later these wall forgets us, if the paint flakes, if the wind carries off our echoes to vast lands unknown, still my body will remember the way this love moved through this night, like colour across me, how it learned my edges, how it said without speaking: you are mine, mine, and vanished into light of morning once more.

102

When the restlessness is also difficult to calm down inside, one day it may even happen that you will finally be able to make peace with yourself; when you will be soothed and comforted by the truer, more angelic being of your Beloved, who first gently bends over you like a sleeping birch branch, then hugs you, cradles you, like an orphaned child, maybe then you yourself can understand the complexity of the choice, it was always in you alone. When Being weaves new ulterior motives and nefarious plans against you, you will easily find out that in this great, infinitely fattened, manipulable game of chance, which is now being played for the pleasure of the Galad World, you will feel that you can find your own lesson-witnesses even in your fall. Even now, still sleepily, a little comatose, the small Odyssey-like readiness of homesickness hums and hums in your heart; you want to go, set off on a journey as if it were a continuous eternity, because you are unable to lose the weight of your precious, tiny life, thought to be shipwrecked, in one place, and you can feel as if the no-man's-day sin of everyday life would immediately crush the seeds of your as-yet-undiscovered creativity. Take good care of yourself, because you yourself can face it every day and you can see it: the average person is regularly cheated and deceived by the harlots, bloodthirsty sensationalists, celebratory, pitiful scumbags, and greedy, unquenchable longing for a more luxuriously arranged lifestyle, which you have nothing to do with, since you always wanted to be yourself. When you feel that others can pull you around as they please, you will need a gentle nickname and some truer words of friendship cut from honesty.

0

Jan 22, 2025

Jan 22, 2025 at 10:12 PM UTC

Tasi83

LUCKY ALTERNATIVES

When the restlessness is also difficult to calm down inside, one day it may even happen that you will finally be able to make peace with yourself; when you will be soothed and comforted by the truer, more angelic being of your Beloved, who first gently bends over you like a sleeping birch branch, then hugs you, cradles you, like an orphaned child, maybe then you yourself can understand the complexity of the choice, it was always in you alone. When Being weaves new ulterior motives and nefarious plans against you, you will easily find out that in this great, infinitely fattened, manipulable game of chance, which is now being played for the pleasure of the Galad World, you will feel that you can find your own lesson-witnesses even in your fall. Even now, still sleepily, a little comatose, the small Odyssey-like readiness of homesickness hums and hums in your heart; you want to go, set off on a journey as if it were a continuous eternity, because you are unable to lose the weight of your precious, tiny life, thought to be shipwrecked, in one place, and you can feel as if the no-man's-day sin of everyday life would immediately crush the seeds of your as-yet-undiscovered creativity. Take good care of yourself, because you yourself can face it every day and you can see it: the average person is regularly cheated and deceived by the harlots, bloodthirsty sensationalists, celebratory, pitiful scumbags, and greedy, unquenchable longing for a more luxuriously arranged lifestyle, which you have nothing to do with, since you always wanted to be yourself. When you feel that others can pull you around as they please, you will need a gentle nickname and some truer words of friendship cut from honesty.

5

How many more wasted, pitiful, nightmare-filled, futile vigils are needed for a moment that was said to be eternal, to let not only the lack that is said to be permanent, but also the emptiness to leak out once and for all?! Despite the deliberately diverted parts, it seems as if the pitifully structured scenario could have always remained the same. Sooner or later, someone will really get to know someone, and what's more, on an instinctive, visceral level, they will unexpectedly throw them away, saying; he delved too much into the other's more personal, more modest, lyrical self, which is like a thick, unbreakable walnut gut, and it's a tough job to even break it open, especially when someone tries to protect and protect his soul with doubled spiral walls. Then comes another love that flirts with the Universe, but is still trite, which may seem to totally replace, change, and convert the person in question, until finally, one fine day, it ends in a painful breakup simply because the secret gigantic weight, the outbursts of honest, lying emotions are no longer they can be enough to make everything right, or just make up for it. Questions, new illusions, and insecurities surround the individual day by day, and when the registrar's finale comes, instead of the obligatory yeses, nos are heard, because material well-being is still worth more than a paltry, life-smelling petty emotion. But the long-awaited solid and eternal snail-house happiness just can't come, since both parties made a petty, calculated deal in their own way, so they bargained at the same time. It's a shame to put the apparent oiliness in yet another set of question marks. The current social conventions, which can be chosen on purpose, are still deliberately imposed on each individual and try to regulate the life of the traditional average, while, condensed into a single minute, the given life will soon fly away, and there will not be a single witness left who knows who was, or could have been, the another?!

0

Jan 21, 2025

Jan 21, 2025 at 10:01 PM UTC

Tasi83

NECESSARY APPARENT TIN ILLUSIONS

How many more wasted, pitiful, nightmare-filled, futile vigils are needed for a moment that was said to be eternal, to let not only the lack that is said to be permanent, but also the emptiness to leak out once and for all?! Despite the deliberately diverted parts, it seems as if the pitifully structured scenario could have always remained the same. Sooner or later, someone will really get to know someone, and what's more, on an instinctive, visceral level, they will unexpectedly throw them away, saying; he delved too much into the other's more personal, more modest, lyrical self, which is like a thick, unbreakable walnut gut, and it's a tough job to even break it open, especially when someone tries to protect and protect his soul with doubled spiral walls. Then comes another love that flirts with the Universe, but is still trite, which may seem to totally replace, change, and convert the person in question, until finally, one fine day, it ends in a painful breakup simply because the secret gigantic weight, the outbursts of honest, lying emotions are no longer they can be enough to make everything right, or just make up for it. Questions, new illusions, and insecurities surround the individual day by day, and when the registrar's finale comes, instead of the obligatory yeses, nos are heard, because material well-being is still worth more than a paltry, life-smelling petty emotion. But the long-awaited solid and eternal snail-house happiness just can't come, since both parties made a petty, calculated deal in their own way, so they bargained at the same time. It's a shame to put the apparent oiliness in yet another set of question marks. The current social conventions, which can be chosen on purpose, are still deliberately imposed on each individual and try to regulate the life of the traditional average, while, condensed into a single minute, the given life will soon fly away, and there will not be a single witness left who knows who was, or could have been, the another?!

5

i lack the lyricism they all expect me to have when i'm feeling miserable and can't confess with my tongue but instead have to express in writing because it's best to have an outlet so you don't regress into patterns you thought you left and disregard the feelings you expelled because they haven't disappeared and are merely suppressed and then i ask myself *"what the **** am i doing?"*

0

Aug 13, 2024

Aug 13, 2024 at 11:51 AM UTC

Ruheen

lyricism

i lack the lyricism they all expect me to have when i'm feeling miserable and can't confess with my tongue but instead have to express in writing because it's best to have an outlet so you don't regress into patterns you thought you left and disregard the feelings you expelled because they haven't disappeared and are merely suppressed and then i ask myself *"what the **** am i doing?"*

26

I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry She almost said

0

May 19, 2020

May 19, 2020 at 12:17 AM UTC

jb-1

PAULA DID (paula would apologize)

I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry She almost said

4

Who the hell you think are to be demanding me a poem? Mozart of this art like all these written no-gimmick lyrics are my profession, Woah, that flow's a shard piercin' you and while you're bleedin', I tell you a fine confession: This is freedom of expression, this is me out of depression, physics is nowhere near a suggestion for reason behind the never-yet-reached depths of my perception. Boy you be readin' these ill lines by a writer so sublime, you couldn't fathom or imagine what it's like to be behind the steerin' wheel of the high-paced drive up in my mind, All these spitting free-verse like that's skilled, yeah sure but they're nowhere close to flowin' poems so potent it could blind, You can play this like over to cope, you'll need to pause and rewind not one, two, three but at least four times. This is be that sick spittin' raw **** you aint heard on the radio, This be that thick **** masculinity half gentleman half wild-lion ROAR and make those ladies hoes, This be the new age slim shady yo, basic rappers way too slow, Mumble rapping on a track and reading **** like BABY PRO, Na **** that mainstream **** dawg this be that underground vicious **** Boy I've been slitting throat downtown before rap ever was for the ***** ***** I'm that middle-school rap era, where gangsters could mean black but also Vinnie Paz, shout-out to the most-feared real-deal Gladiator straight from that Sicily pit, I love Paz for his delivery, flow and anti-gimmicky lyrical potency like no other G that's hit that's hit the scene, I love Tech for the flow man, Em for the show and love Minaj for puns and Hopsin for being the pioneer or bringing REAL RAP back, he's a cunning industry player but **** HE GOT FLOW. Chris Webby for the raw masculinity-vibe progressive **** spreading those vibes getting the world to hear his messages, I love Bugzy and Devs and a little Wiley doesn't hurt, Grime Scene's a beautiful off-shoot of rap that unlike mumble crap is an old beautiful tree that grew straight from the dirt, Imma leave it here, let me on this site so your ***** can squirt, If you're a guy you'll wish you were me but turnin' me down's buryin' what you know be that legit **** that like a Phoenix'll rebirth.

0

Dec 17, 2018

Dec 17, 2018 at 12:59 PM UTC

SolidBarMadman

The poem that got me on the site

Who the hell you think are to be demanding me a poem? Mozart of this art like all these written no-gimmick lyrics are my profession, Woah, that flow's a shard piercin' you and while you're bleedin', I tell you a fine confession: This is freedom of expression, this is me out of depression, physics is nowhere near a suggestion for reason behind the never-yet-reached depths of my perception. Boy you be readin' these ill lines by a writer so sublime, you couldn't fathom or imagine what it's like to be behind the steerin' wheel of the high-paced drive up in my mind, All these spitting free-verse like that's skilled, yeah sure but they're nowhere close to flowin' poems so potent it could blind, You can play this like over to cope, you'll need to pause and rewind not one, two, three but at least four times. This is be that sick spittin' raw **** you aint heard on the radio, This be that thick **** masculinity half gentleman half wild-lion ROAR and make those ladies hoes, This be the new age slim shady yo, basic rappers way too slow, Mumble rapping on a track and reading **** like BABY PRO, Na **** that mainstream **** dawg this be that underground vicious **** Boy I've been slitting throat downtown before rap ever was for the ***** ***** I'm that middle-school rap era, where gangsters could mean black but also Vinnie Paz, shout-out to the most-feared real-deal Gladiator straight from that Sicily pit, I love Paz for his delivery, flow and anti-gimmicky lyrical potency like no other G that's hit that's hit the scene, I love Tech for the flow man, Em for the show and love Minaj for puns and Hopsin for being the pioneer or bringing REAL RAP back, he's a cunning industry player but **** HE GOT FLOW. Chris Webby for the raw masculinity-vibe progressive **** spreading those vibes getting the world to hear his messages, I love Bugzy and Devs and a little Wiley doesn't hurt, Grime Scene's a beautiful off-shoot of rap that unlike mumble crap is an old beautiful tree that grew straight from the dirt, Imma leave it here, let me on this site so your ***** can squirt, If you're a guy you'll wish you were me but turnin' me down's buryin' what you know be that legit **** that like a Phoenix'll rebirth.

19

i'm throwing in my flower petals wind will carry luck until you are found in my meadows we will lay in the grass, staring at the stars, ****** so that time will slow and we've lost the bars i want you to speak to me in melodies and rhythms the words flowing from your lips a beautiful lyricism

0

Aug 8, 2018

Aug 8, 2018 at 8:21 PM UTC

DisturbinglyHuman

Time

i'm throwing in my flower petals wind will carry luck until you are found in my meadows we will lay in the grass, staring at the stars, ****** so that time will slow and we've lost the bars i want you to speak to me in melodies and rhythms the words flowing from your lips a beautiful lyricism

6

https://soundcloud.com/theaidanazhar/sets/aidan-a-prefinals I'm sorry, for this isn't a poem I apologise for the lack of beauty My words, the justice I owe them Is now replaced simply Musically I set my soul free I'd love to share the voice I found In letting myself Become me

0

May 20, 2017

May 20, 2017 at 11:00 PM UTC

themesmer

I'm Excited, My Music Comes to Fruition

https://soundcloud.com/theaidanazhar/sets/aidan-a-prefinals I'm sorry, for this isn't a poem I apologise for the lack of beauty My words, the justice I owe them Is now replaced simply Musically I set my soul free I'd love to share the voice I found In letting myself Become me

11

Baptized to be a martyr of sour lyricism, I am immolated to the lavish denial. Inconceivable, waiting for mid- September, hunting season is open, here in the limbo of jade falls I’m a prayer of not allowed harmonies. No use in trying to exalt every single bit of black twinkle. Enviable, devoted to light, the glaze rainbow prays, shocked by the fantasy of so much epic adventures, in which, repentant, feeling terrifically safe.

0

Apr 3, 2016

Apr 3, 2016 at 2:56 PM UTC

lucreziamn

Denial

Baptized to be a martyr of sour lyricism, I am immolated to the lavish denial. Inconceivable, waiting for mid- September, hunting season is open, here in the limbo of jade falls I’m a prayer of not allowed harmonies. No use in trying to exalt every single bit of black twinkle. Enviable, devoted to light, the glaze rainbow prays, shocked by the fantasy of so much epic adventures, in which, repentant, feeling terrifically safe.

17

Lyricism, is always fun to play with. Going with the natural flow of conciousness, And not being conscious Of the never ending film Of life. Living as it is And know how, How to be, is. Never Questioning what you know, But knowing what you know Is as much as you know For that second.

0

Mar 1, 2015

Mar 1, 2015 at 3:12 AM UTC

todayspost

basic

Lyricism, is always fun to play with. Going with the natural flow of conciousness, And not being conscious Of the never ending film Of life. Living as it is And know how, How to be, is. Never Questioning what you know, But knowing what you know Is as much as you know For that second.

14

Deep within the legend, Lies the paradigm: Concepts so vast, yet eternally combined. Certain ideas that ever-last those who need it defined but I can assure you that fate Is pre-determinedly assigned And it's up to you to gravitate Toward where it can align. In the grand scheme Of this complex quantum design, Is a beautiful theme That could be depicted as divine. Action begins with thought That could not confine What we all had sought And what we had bore in mind. Yet with that all under consideration, We need to know how your reality is also mine With some quantifiable explanation That we'll eventually intertwine. So due to your position Throughout space and time, Find the nearest mission That allows you to further ascend or climb.

0

Mar 24, 2014

Mar 24, 2014 at 10:39 AM UTC

lua

Inclined..

Deep within the legend, Lies the paradigm: Concepts so vast, yet eternally combined. Certain ideas that ever-last those who need it defined but I can assure you that fate Is pre-determinedly assigned And it's up to you to gravitate Toward where it can align. In the grand scheme Of this complex quantum design, Is a beautiful theme That could be depicted as divine. Action begins with thought That could not confine What we all had sought And what we had bore in mind. Yet with that all under consideration, We need to know how your reality is also mine With some quantifiable explanation That we'll eventually intertwine. So due to your position Throughout space and time, Find the nearest mission That allows you to further ascend or climb.

26