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The walls crack and chip around me,
The paint peels from its home,
An old radio sits on a table nearby,
A relic of a time I could never be part of.

When my father dies, I will be the only one who looks like him.
I'll decay and become a relic, I'll be just like my father.
I'll be like that radio, the walls, and paint.
I'll be a drum made of skin, echoing my lost generation.
PoserPersona Aug 2018
The concrete drum
beats two steps;
their sound signals
dear freedom

The cricket hum
drowns the day
and instills a
tranquil numb

The bare breeze
strums leaves and all
and breaks the heat
in welcome

The tonic sum
a blessed song;
allowing one
to triumph
Cné Jul 2018

Ebony
silhouettes
inked
by a dying sun,
portray
lovers embraced
in
the synergy of one.

Inseparable
dreams
slowly
morph into one …
subservient
to the
whims
of the compliant
heart’s
drum.

And
azure pools reflect
a
tie-dyed denim sky,
as
enchanted dreamers
seal
their love with a kiss nearby.

Twinkling
stars confetti
the
emptiness of space.
And
as darkness descends,
shadows
swallow all of the light’s trace.

Reality
pauses …
as
time seems to stand so still
to
the depths of their very souls,
motionless
they swim.

Allison Oct 2017
Follow the kick-drum of the heart
to the point where it’s heard loudest.
Spend ten thousand hours on the lungs:
Read the textbook on what fills us.
Dedicate a white board
to what makes us collapse.
Hold the bell lightly
to differentiate your own pulse from another’s.
Then drink, and dance, and pray,
to relearn that they’re the same.
Cné Aug 2017
The weary mind in turmoil writhes
and slumber will not come.
The moonlight seeps
like latticed withered vines.
I listen to my heartbeat,
in the silence like a drum,
And through my shuttered eyes....
see strange designs.
The night will not take me prisoner,
and bind me to restful sleep.
No dreams, or any respite,
no way, my soul to keep.
Groaning as I turn myself
to rest beleaguered pain,
I stretch to ease
my tortured back and sigh.
Then I fluff my pillow
to deactivate my speeding brain...
Rolling in the covers,
as my body sweats and strains,
seeking to lose myself,
discarding all, my pains

But my eyes are wide...
and still the question..."Why?"
Brains on hyperdrive
Stu Harley Feb 6
Faith
Ask my heart
To
Be
The
drum major
That
Lead
The
Wind Parade
Through
The
valley of death
without
any fear
Suresh Gupta Mar 16
Drum Beat
03/16/2019

Distant,
it's another land
Someone else's war
Rumblings carried on the wind
Too faint

Far
Not my land
Still someone else's war
Now I can hear the explosions
Interspersing the beat

Near
It's distinct
Still not my war
Amongst a thousand
The sound of a single bullet

Close
Deafening explosions
Cracking, snapping, buzzing
By the millions leaving the muzzles
Whaling, screaming and even the whimpering
But the beat is constant

The beat is constant
The whimpering, the screaming,
The buzzing and the snapping
Those explosions they are
All in my head, and now
It's my inescapable war
And the drum beats
Constantly
Stu Harley Sep 2018
the
African drums
beat
you can
hear the sound of war
instead of peace
you
can hear it
through
the
rhythm of the beat
if
you
listen to the African drum
Smoke Scribe Aug 2018
The Violent Storm by the Water
(Do You Trust Your Imagination)

was not unexpected
but its fury was without compare,
poet awake in semi-preparation

living by water should be a human right for all,
even a small room, overlooking, gives new meaning to
perspective

we blessed with a patio door, encased in a glass window big enough for a smallish elephant to come visit and play with children

a storm is observed up close and personal as if one was in
an IMAX 3D  theater, and the edges of existence were being redefined,
sharpened by fury, tooled by tools untouched by mortal hands

miles of bay illuminated with bass drum furious accompaniment

stand before the screen,
poets arms outstretched as a supplicant,
the light of the lightening passes through him,
yet , behind me, she still sleeps

then the entire house shakes, reverberates, as if to say:


”tremble humans, cower, you are not permitted to watch my majesty, for such it was when created heaven and earth”

bold poet window worshipping
risky answers:

“but who will know
if even a poet cannot declaim sights
no one else has seen?”

”true, true, but you must choose if poet truly,
do you trust your imagination human,
to prove that the powers of the heavens are limitless?”

write of storms unseen and nature endless miracles

”then you may call yourself
a miracle too,
a poet

violent #storm violentstorn
Sam Hawkins Jul 2018
Last night, a spiraled light
it caught and submerged me--
carrying far off
all my fears.

My drum-pulsed heart was flying.

I rose and weaved my airy way
among jagged mountain rock--
my path opening, opening

until a high-arched gate appeared,
laced with colored flags
and I moved through it and beyond.

In a while I saw among distant shadows of villagers
and wisps of smoke a child there, sitting,
her back to me.

Are you my teacher?
Yes, she said, though not with words.

What do you have to teach me?
Be simple.
this is a generalization account of an "upper world  journey" I took the night before. this is what happened. shamanic journeying with a drum pulse as "vehicle" is a technology. Seek out a highly trained practioner as a guide...if you wish to travel. Anyone who studied with Michael Harner (now transitioned) is a ringer! I am not permitted to be a guide for others.
Daisy Marrow Jan 2014
It's so quiet.
It's so strange.
I've never heard silence so loud before.
The drum beats loud and echoes out
leaving us alone in this emptiness.
Come on, love
don't leave me hanging from this cliff.
Don't leave me alone to die.

I know times are hard and you can't stand on your own,
but that doesn't mean you have to leave.
Don't run away from this pain.
Just come into my arms and stay.
At the end of the day
the rain will be blown over and all the flowers will be bloomed.
Even the toughest storms leave beauty for the eyes to love.

Don't get swallowed up in the shadows.
I'll be your light.
I'll guide you,
just follow my feet.
I'll lead you into me and hold you until your numb.

You're standing in the ocean
welcoming the salt water into your body.
Dry your eyes and swim to the shore
because I'll be waiting there.
Just please don't go.
Because if you leave I might just have to follow.
2014
Natalie Apr 2018
My pupils scatter and drag.
I dream and eat the round, brown beads
In fitful sleep, my tongue pale and sallow.
This consciousness will not float.
The lids clatter shut like a kettle drum cooker,
A thing alive inside, more or less.
There is an echo,
Scuttle, and a cough. Strangers in the cellar.
There is no rightness to this, only sacrilege.
The unjust man chatters in my skull.
"Go home, go home!", I cry.
The sense of it all withers with the passing of the years.
Prabhat Chhetri Feb 2016
telecast trepidations
at the top of your
tongue

move like the moon

shout like the
sun

The monkeys are swinging to the beat of the drum


It's finally begun
It's finally begun
Brother Jimmy Nov 2015
\



Your beautiful heart has a tiny little hole
Goin’ b’bap-bim-boom boom-bap...b’bap
The mitral-valve-prolapsed leaky little hole
It goes ba-***-bap, bitty-bap, rat-ta tat tat

Instead of the traditional ba-dum, ba-dum
And aside from the fact that I like the beat
There’s another reason, baby, I like you, (yum)
Why I lay myself down at your ivory feet

It’s not because your heart sound like a drum
Or the fact your soul shines bright and true
It’s not just the *** tuh-tum tum tum
...It’s because I have a hole in my heart too
For Diane
DEW Mar 2016
Body of shame.
It haunts in tatters.
All this grief smites all that matters,
'til there's no one left to blame.

It has the fading scars
of good ol' times*
plastered
like flaking paint:
Tattoos of radiant beach sunsets;
forgotten "beneath" a shore
of its memories
like an ordinary pebble
under a mountain of stones.

Ethereal grasp
never touching a thing,
yet finding itself
touched
by desire.

Where goes the time?
Past yet to come.
It has broken scales that balance wine,
*yet it's sober to passion's drum.
Haven't written anything here for a while.
Been writing too many twitter poems, haha.

I hope you all enjoy!
Jessop Oct 2018
At the swinging of a pendulum
The seconds pass one, by, one.
Like beats of the drum
The spinning of the hands which dictate time

But it ends,
The weight hits the bottom, the pendulum stops swinging
The drum falls silent
With its energy all spent, it stops.

Without the will to continue,
It is allowed to die,
and silence takes over.
As time is allowed to stop.
Although I didn't realize until after writing it, this is my take on the country song "My Grandfather's Clock" by Johnny Cash, but obviously a poem
Q Jan 2017
Candy-sweet ballads
****** heartache arias
Undying
soulmate
anthems

Everywhere I go
The soundtrack never changes
But no one else
seems
to notice

Red-rose shades of white noise
Heart-shaped confetti stuck in my ears
Jangling
omnipresent
sound waves

The song everyone is singing
Grates against my inner drum
It's not
the kind
I'm looking for
Yenson Aug 2018
Its a scam, its a scam, see the Crimson Gang deftly scamming them
They by sleight have befuddled gullible masses Moral Compass
Made them see wrong as right twisting their brains from the stem
With deceitful guile they shepherded them all to the fools' campus

Slander and fake News galore fed to vacant hungry masses scrum
Knowledge is power the reprobates declares, do not let it pass
We're the majority the bullies screams, knowing they're just scums
Worthless charlatans who rob successes and **** without cutlass

They take a foregone conclusion and coat it with fool's gold crumb
A victim with no intention of going after an uninterested lass
Dumb masses fed fake news fooled into harassing actions dumb
A non-event becomes a show of the controlling might of our class

Crimson gangs interpret a non-events from his deluded sad drum
Creates a warped sick drama round a hapless victim for laughs
Gives street theater actions to masses, these will oppose and numb
Whilst poor victim subjected to 'voiding' madness wonders past

The Crimson leaders laugh so much like pirates drinking ***
Look how we manipulate the masses, they are so simple and crass
With our devious twisting propaganda they eat out of our ***
We simply use them to nail and crucify our victim to the cross
Gang stalking is simply a form of community mobbing and organised stalking combined. Just like you have workplace mobbing, and online mobbing, which are both fully recognised as legitimate, this is the community form.
Gang stalking is organised harassment at it's best. It the targeting of an individual for revenge, jealousy, sport, or to keep them quiet, etc.

It's organised, widespread, and growing. Some describe this form of harassment as, "A psychological attack that can completely destroy a persons life, while leaving little or no evidence to incriminate the perpetrators."
Lorraine Cinco Jun 2015
It was the same overwhelming night when the first time he told me that he loves me.
The only difference was when the second time he told me this.
I never believed him.
I want to love him more.
Love, pain. Love, pain.
Echoed million times in my head.
Heartbeats like drum rolls.
No air, breath in, breath out, I couldnt bear.
A cut connections trying to fix like the way he tie his shoe lace.
Shall I trust him?
Shall I believe him?
Never again to the same man.
But I am like a child.
No matter how deep the wounds.
I still play this game of love.
Stained memories were hard to forget.
Uninvited yet kept on coming.
But I took the chance.
Fell in love again.
After all, no days I never did.
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