"acoustics" poems
I am a mother, a wife
A friend, a teacher
I seek happiness
I love deep
Only souls not faces
Always loyal
I don't judge
I love to help
I see good in everyone
Which makes me naive at times
I am open to all
Hoping for a world
Where everyone fits
Labels don't exist
I latch to rules
Anxiety demands
I suffer from OCD
Always chasing order
Shackled by disinfection
I am comfortable in control
Leading the way
I seek to inspire
I believe in others
I am honest with my feelings
I value experience
And learn from them
I reflect on my day
Always trying to improve
I search for meaning in conversations
Enjoy learning new things daily
I play sports
Love music
Enjoy Art
Express myself in writes
Fascinated by abstracts
Reading words to gain insight
The grace in movement
The beauty in visual artistry
I love to re-discover nature
The acoustics of birds
Waterfalls and rain
Kissing falling snow
Connecting with our majestic sky
I love the stillness
Each morning brings
The dew sleeping in the emerald
The lacquered canvas
Of quiet lakes
Motionless
In something so vast
Yoga is my philosophy
A healthy
Body
Mind
And spirit
My destination is
The pursuit of enlightenment
In my life's pain
I am coming out of the spiral
Enjoying my journey
Seeing straight
Swimming the unalome
I feed my soul
Hoping IT can lead me
Leaving my ego in my wake
I remain unfinished
I continue to wear masks
Sometimes to hide
As I fear rejection
Still..
As happy as I seem
As lovely as I am
My soul has a shadow
Hidden inside
My essence traced
By shaded light
I am a survivor
Broken in places
Finally accepting my true self
Jl 2016
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 6:16 PM UTC
You are a walking symphony.
Feet, eagerly stepping on the strings of my heart to create the most beautiful arpeggio that I've ever heard. Arms, grazing the old red bricks that seem to structure this sad place. You screamed "I love you" and these ragged walls shook as they carried the acoustics of your voice through this concert hall of a heart. I dare you to trust that this place wont collapse. Not with you in it. I refuse.
There have been way too many prior casualties for you to fall victim to the same disasters. I will guide you through. I will love you. Together we will reconstruct what is left and turn the debris into something beautiful.
Jun 12, 2017
Jun 12, 2017 at 11:32 PM UTC
Violin sonatas of gloom
Acoustics of desire
Play all at once
A peculiar compilation
An elegy of sorts
For yours truly
Welcome to life
Soak up the unrealised potential
Inflamed with rage
To this day
You walk this earth
With a strong conviction
You owe yourself something
You cannot deliver
Extreme self-expectations
Coupled with perfectionism
The fatal modus operandi
You continue adhering to
Goodluck with standing in the way
Of your own happiness
Thrive in your concentrated negativity
While seeking solace in one-liners
Of absolute ********
You maybe a joke
But you are hilarious
Oh, wait.. the joke wore thin
A dozen punchlines ago
You died 12 summers ago
It’s whatever
One day bitter and wilted
As you sit in a cold impersonal office
You will dream about the ocean
And mourn wasted youth
Today will be yesterday
Today is ruined
Tomorrow is dead.
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 5:35 PM UTC
I walked into the guitar store
simply desiring to change the strings
not knowing at all
what this lovely day would bring
I sat my acoustic on the counter
and picked out my string set
Martin Acoustics, always trusted
a purchase I never regret
I sat and played on my Christmas present
A baby blue Fender Strat
into the shop walked My lady
with a figure like an hourglass
She said she was in the mood for some excitement
I was always willing to provide
I said but darling were in public
she said I don't care, I want you with those deep blue eyes.
so I snuck her into the repair shop
surrounded by tools and parts
I kissed her deeply and traced
on her ample ******* a heart
I slid her pants down and drank from her womanly cup
I heard her moan and whimper
as deeper and deeper I supped
she decided to reciprocate
and slid down my jeans as well
I looked to make sure no one was coming
because this would be hot I could tell
She laid me on the table
kissed up and down my neck
I rolled her over
so I was on top of my lover
I stood proud like a soldier
After the first ******
I kissed her and said you ride next
she bounced on me so hard
I felt more and more of her soft heated flesh
So after our day in the guitar store was done
she held onto my tool like a loaded gun
she said this belongs to only one
woman on this earth
me and you better always be ready to fill me with your girth
;)
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 11:29 PM UTC
How intimate this is
to bath with another
the wetness of me
surrounding you
with the wetness from the shower head
I brought you up
as you lifted me out
wanting this upon the floor
I whispered no with my fingers down your back
and you leaned me against the wall
The glass in the room
seemed to echo my moans
the acoustics so gentle
as our bodies beated out the rhythm
of an escalating in and out
We were building up a sweat
from the steam and our heat
and in heat we were
for I came as you were in me
and you kissed me then
My fingers through your hair
and my walls vibrated
as you came into me hard and spent
I felt it all in me
How intimate this is
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 2:43 AM UTC
So
from your hand,
I learned to drink the light...
A residue of dahlias
in their late summer blood,
rimmed white with the fluid evening,
the soul, some wild falcon
folded in golden lullabies
of nightingale acoustics...
Eclipsed by the gentle pathos
of the body, shining
as I leave it behind,
crying in its dark thorns,
some forlorn fragment shudders
in the silver embrace you lace with calm...
As it laps
into that crumpled karma
and dreams it was once
a jaguar of dark passages,
held in the long hands of sorrow,
see, these clavicles emerge through orchids...
And a liquid resurrection
envelope the earth you bathe
from the fugitive gesture of wings,
so, it was in these black,
grim prairies of the soul...
Where I
at last learned
to drink the light from your hand....
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 1:32 PM UTC
Love the sun,
love the sky,
listening to the joy,
of birds in love,
receiving a letter,
from the distant clouds,
waiting,
to whisper to the stars,
starting,
to dream,
to walk,
how much degree of coffee,
is the mood,
what color,
is time,
the acoustics of waves,
surf and spray,
and sand,
the roughhouse,
what to eat for dinner,
what are they doing now,
when was the last time we went to that amusement park,
and ate that vegan ice-cream,
what year,
that magnificent adventure,
crazy dreams,
over and over,
the secrets,
the smile,
the ending,
are they real.
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 3:19 AM UTC
We sit cross-legged in the story corner
Breathing faint ammonia smells.
Table chants and hymns echo through corridor acoustics,
All creatures great and small.
We are wedged in a tangle of podgy thighs,
Grazed knees, scabs and warts.
And Anthony is sitting alone again
Where he can do no harm.
Yet he said he would bring it, and bring it he has.
Its tiny white head is nosing over
The hem of his pocket,
Whiskers a-twitch and
Eyes like tiny blood blisters ripe for popping.
A shudder of shivering whispers and
Nervous heads are half turned:
Yes, Anthony is smiling his special smile.
Mrs Lloyd has found the page,
My lids are squeezed tight
As I urge my mind to follow her away
From here, away from now.
For playtime will be ****** once again.
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 3:20 AM UTC
The acoustics in your skull
hinder what you think people hear
when you speak
The book cannot read itself
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 12:11 AM UTC
you are the first person I've ever wanted to share sunsets with
my loneliness stings like a salt bath after a night of wine and fresh Elvis wounds,
you are anything but desolate
the summer of two thousand nine I opened my veins to try and see God
the doctor who stitched me up asked what a 13 year old would know about faith
and all I said was that God takes his turn on the swingset by pushing other children out of the way,
but you are an angel
and even still I'd boil your halo and inject it in my veins
I want to be close to your holiness
like warmth, like winter; we go together like relief
with you, i'm never even here but I never want to leave
because I need you like my childhood that haunts the walls,
like sunday morning acoustics and coffee that's too sweet,
but not sweet enough for you to say anything
say nothing,
I miss you because you're not here and I'm not there
and still we are anything but lonely
the day I met you, I started missing you.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 5:47 PM UTC
Maieutic dreamer, the ecstatic euphorias of cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix are pandemic. Extravagant exorbitances of flirtatious flamboyance and flippantly flighty flit-ness. But what of stint-ness snities? Excruciating exacerbations of laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tediums. Synaptic syntax is fervently intense like a feral phrenic frenzied **** Ruminating humanity’s collective consciousness gives me hysterical deliriums. We’re frenetically febrile, atrociously impetuous impudents who don’t know our id conclusion from our impromptu innuendo juncture. And what of the organizational principles of our subconscious continuums? Do we only dream about dexterous articulation? Can we become the agile acuity we envision or do we wallow in the drifty drivel of dour droll’s dreary? What’s to phatic say about futurity fatidic’s forlorn wanton? We need chutzpah, moxie savvy’s panache. Is there no such thing as a universally acceptable ontological deontology? Probity is as obvious as due yesterday, ethology’s entelechy the omnipresent reward. Elan vital is not subjective, it’s objective. Explicating epiphanies of social contiguity’s prospectus so innate as to be irrefragable. Not perhaps the oligarchies of eclectic synectics, but perhaps the pugnacious audacities of emote to exude aimed imbue. Assay relay’s convey, foray delay purveys inveigh. Perhaps if we are all cogently fecund with our vituperatively vociferous the holocaustial cacophony of our obstreperously abstruse will be just what the grotto grouch gumption ordered. Infusing all with the capability of aspiring to higher powers and yet not forgetting the mystery of self and others. I know I know what an ingratiating sycophant on the introjection. Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity when we all know immunity is Epicurean absurdity, but I already covered that on the phrenic aimed holocaustial cacophony. Seriously of we all enunciate so on the diction of mesomerism's to punctual. Why can’t that be the essence of accidence ambience acoustics, the arbitrational attenuation of actuator's aorist. We are not ethereal, we are corporeally preternatural and the sooner we all learn to respect each other to that the sooner we can get down to the sublimely surreal in oneiromancy’s apotropaic panaceas.
May 29, 2019
May 29, 2019 at 11:35 AM UTC
I love the girl who is too young to smoke cigarettes but lights them anyway. She sits on the high school bleachers at 9 on a Sunday night, gets tired of the smoke in her eyes, and tosses eventual death in the trash can.
I love the girl who has never enjoyed the taste of alcohol but feels like Holly Golightly when she holds a glass of Cabernet so she drinks it anyway. She sits in her grandfather’s lounge chair on a Monday night, plays the songs he taught her on the ***** neglects her English essay, and leaves the red remains in the bottle.
I love the girl who cannot stand the sound of my guitar, but pretends to like acoustics because she knows the music brings out the best in me, and that even if she asks me to stop, I will play anyway. She lies on the floor on a Tuesday night, wishing she were in another town too small to be called a city, listens to melodies that remind her of where she is, ignores my creations and leaves my heart in her hands as she finally falls asleep.
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 1:39 AM UTC
Slipping in my ear-buds,
To get my daily dose
Feeling so close to the sound that doesn't affect me
Flying over clouds only my mind can see
Bass wobbles, no duds
I'm addicted to the ripples,
My head lulls with a vengeance
"don't bother him man, hes gone"
Passers-by call to me
So drunk on sound...
My cranium has better acoustics then the great theater
Rhythm's projected with shock waves and powered by hand grenades
I am a supernova charged by AUX
Watch anxiety writhe and burn in my wake
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 6:13 PM UTC
parting clouds over the field of wheat
split the gray into a sea of golden rays
bright enough to leave even the blindest man at his feet
passing wind slithers by
carrying with it seeds and soft cries
tears from the protector of all the crop
the lonely scarecrow who stays planted
his tune the most melancholy of acoustics
a tranquil coffee shop
birds circle frightfully overhead
for they do not know their avoidance leaves the scarecrow all but dead
he who never meant any harm
but who's appearance raises cacophonous alarm
cursing the sky, the scarecrow shouts
yet, the scarecrow will soon get his wish
once his stump dries he will be free with the coming drought
so as the farmer prays for rain,
he questions God's whereabouts
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 8:05 PM UTC
Maieutic dreamer, the ecstatic euphoria of cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix is pandemic. Extravagant exorbitances of flirtatious flamboyance and flippantly flighty flit-ness. But what of stint-ness snities? Excruciating exacerbations of laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tediums. Synaptic syntax is fervently intense like a feral phrenic frenzied **** Ruminating humanity’s collective consciousness gives me hysterical deliriums. We’re frenetically febrile, atrociously impetuous impudents who don’t know our id conclusion from our impromptu innuendo juncture. And what of the organizational principles of our subconscious continuums? Do we only dream about dexterous articulation? Can we become the agile acuity we envision or do we wallow in the drifty drivel of dour droll’s dreary? What’s to phatic say about futurity fatidic’s forlorn wanton? We need chutzpah, moxie savvy’s panache. Is there no such thing as a universally acceptable ontological deontology? Probity is as obvious as due yesterday, ethology’s entelechy the omnipresent reward. Elan vital is not subjective, it’s objective. Explicating epiphanies of social contiguity’s prospectus so innate as to be irrefragable. Not perhaps the oligarchies of eclectic synectics, but perhaps the pugnacious audacities of emote to exude aimed imbue. Assay relay’s convey, foray delay purveys inveigh. Perhaps if we are all cogently fecund with our vituperatively vociferous the holocaustial cacophony of our obstreperously abstruse will be just what the grotto grouch gumption ordered. Infusing all with the capability of aspiring to higher powers and yet not forgetting the mystery of self and others. I know I know what an ingratiating sycophant on the introjection. Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity when we all know immunity is Epicurean absurdity, but I already covered that on the phrenic aimed holocaustial cacophony. Seriously of we all enunciate so on the diction of mesomerism's to punctual. Why can’t that be the essence of accidence ambience acoustics, the arbitrational attenuation of actuator's aorist. We are not ethereal, we are corporeally preternatural and the sooner we all learn to respect each other to that the sooner we can get down to the sublimely surreal in oneiromancy’s apotropaic panaceas.
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 7:19 PM UTC
You make me not hate snoring.
You miracle worker, you.
Usually it feels like a lawnmower
massaging my skull, but you, buddy,
croak like an angel.
The acoustics of your voice,
the high fidelity and crumpled static,
the seesaw between treble and bass,
have my head singing
pitch-perfect harmonies.
Your hum slows down my tempo,
heightens my crescendo,
sends my heart pumping
at double-time staccato.
May 28, 2012
May 28, 2012 at 12:08 AM UTC
This is a true story of Sniper’s ally
The old man carried a cello and a stool
Bullets divided wind
So many straight lines he could see them like sheet music
He sat the stool down in the middle of the street
Held his cello
And played under the gunshots
Until everything was quiet
And in the outdoor acoustics
Made by apartment buildings and the morning cold
He played a fifteen minute rendition of heartache
On a cello tuned to the key of thunder
His high notes were so much screaming
And the deep low notes bellowed his hunger
It was the simple sound of savagery
When people needed another way to know what pain sounds like
They could hear it in the way that the strings
Absorbed the rust from his arthritic fingertips
Scraping the sound of struggle
It was the most painfully beautiful music
He played to the soft continuous metronome click of reloading
Beauty like a rose that dies in the hair of a girl
Whose own rose is a blooming ****** chest wound
Thought maybe he could replant her
Like the earth might give her back
Anything plucked from the root dies shortly after
He played for her
He played for courage
He played like a prayer to be shot doing what he loved
We all wanna die doing what we love
She was shot picking roses
He played cello
On a playground of bullets
A song that begged
**** me
Where is your god now?
When all you wanted was to be a casualty of love and music
He finished
Beads of sweat like ***** diamonds
As the morning sun mocked him for living another day
Some of us get to walk away from this
Without a single scar
Even if we wanted one
He walked away
And shortly after
The bullets began to do what bullets do
When they pierce flesh
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 6:58 PM UTC
my body is a word.
my son
a naked body.
my eden is Eden.
my word is southernmost.
my postman is a priest
confused in a field
of poppies
who happens upon
a rusty as created
knife.
my son is sick.
my son is my soap.
my triumph is a stuffed crow
hourglass
of the aforementioned
priest.
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 9:05 PM UTC
I wish My pooch knew what acoustics is,
With a voice bit more squeakier than a mice,
It tries to scare the cat down the road.
Dec 23, 2015
Dec 23, 2015 at 12:40 AM UTC
Accidence ambience acoustics find
Tractive tactile taciturn went
Cantankerous cantilever capacity bind
Wanton wayward warranty pent
In extremis extremity exigence grind
Apriori aorist actuator glint
Futurity fatidic's fornication wind
Lecherous libido larcenies bent
Lurid livid laconic mind
Exergonic ephemeral extant spent
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 9:30 PM UTC
With the piquant poignancy of lurid allusion
I create a dynamically progressive matrix of collusion
Whose apex crux axis is beyond finite solution
And the endergonicaly adhesive pragmatics imbue a cohesively coercive illusion
For the inveterate hypotaxis of livid elusions
I portray a protensive conjunction of latent confusions
Whose effervescent effluence is vagile laconic effusions
And the sardonic impending preponderance conveys sabbat consortium delusions
From the endemic puissance of eclectic synectics
I derive a dialectically semantic sorcery of syntactics
Whose apothegm aphorisms are levity terse synaptics
And the lucidly collusive illuminism educes the aesthetics of geomancy's fatidic
Through the viable salience of kithe’s intrinsics
I exude a portentous pervasion acuity of linguistics
Whose apomixis anabolics are irrefragably felicitous orotund acoustics
And the aural auspice austerities infer axioms of manumission’s eidetics
By the hypercritical mitigations of anachronistic sociology
I purvey rampart ransack oblations of epistemology
Whose azure opulence articulations are futurity ostensive ontology
And the evolutional ontogeny metamorphisms incur a homogeny epiphany deontology
Oct 20, 2016
Oct 20, 2016 at 10:30 PM UTC
Prerogative presumptive judicature, cantankerous cantilever capacity. Paradoxical dichotomy greaves, gauntlets gamut catalyst abstracts, asymmetrical symmetry. Objectified manifest's dimensional delineation, intrinsic endemic innate opaque opulence. Protractive analyses accidence ambience acoustics. Spatiotemporal telemetry tactician's trajectory extant.
Prophylaxis protocol annex annul. Kinesiology kleptomaniac extraversion embezzlement euthanasia extortion, embark embargo extradition. Aura roan's rainbow mare's nimbus nimiety exorcism. Corporeally preternatural's existential exigence exodus. Cerebral cortex's ****** matrix's carousel ceaselessly ceremony chaos character charisma, apex axis crux, exponentially extemporaneous manumission. Categorical imperative hubris, hectic duty deontological probity.
Astral projection's clairaudience clairvoyance. Tenets and principles, maxims and axioms, and doctrinal mandates. Exserted protuberance's edifice ******** Exotically ****** ethereally sublime xylem Xanadu sails. Erotica erectile errantry.
Fulham nuance ***** Formidable foundry of a foyer fracas. Harpy harsh hast, atrium attrition seditious. Oak tree ****** nails swarthy ******** swath swizzles and unicorn railway sails. Anchor pin tachometer troll wood harlotry's root clod rudiments, lightning bow hat pick. Transcendent nimbus nimiety exorcist. Transpicuous translucence alluvium aloof impunity.
Feb 21, 2021
Feb 21, 2021 at 10:07 PM UTC
Bliss across the strings
Mellowed rhyme
Goes in to my ears
Bow
Across
String
Like grace never seen
Two parts that combine
To make the instrument alive
Vibration,
Acoustics,
Music,
Enters me
Parts never touched
By music
Now energized by bow and string
I wish to fill my
Mind,
Body,
Soul,
Taking me to a place
I have never been or seen
I'm high on music
I have fallen for the bow and string
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 4:17 PM UTC
fearless tires kissing wet pavement
jokes exchanged between laughing dogs
street lights whispering secrets to severed sidewalks
applauding leaves appreciating the evening's entertainment
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 11:01 PM UTC
And I open my eyes. In a deep sleep I was. Voices woke me up. Sounds a lot like there is a t.v on in another room. I could hear all sorts of different voices speaking. I focus for a moment and listen. There are so many. I cannot make out what they are saying. I then sit up in my bed and the voices stop! All at once. Was I dreaming? I lay my head back down on my pillow and hear nothing but my own heartbeat. I then turn on my left side. My ear folds in such a way that the voices come back! What am I hearing!? Where is it coming from? The voices are quite beautiful. I think it is a mixture of some form of acoustics that seem to travel in a time stream. Going either forward or backwords. This chaos of voices cascades only on the folded ear.
Jul 29, 2016
Jul 29, 2016 at 3:12 PM UTC