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M Solav Sep 2018
There are clouds of sound and noise
That utter thoughts in a muffled voice,
Gestures of hands simply won’t cast out
Cloudy skies in days of doubt.

Like strangers lost in a crowd
Whose cries are buried by the loud,
The loud din of helpless wanderers
Whose presence disrupts and disturbs.

All strangers left on their own,
Islands floating out in the fog;
Orphans with cruel fates to bemoan;
Fates that are swept under the rug.

And who's looking with interest, who reaches down with an arm,
Never so eager to help, neither too late nor too soon?
Who would make this world perhaps a little more warm
And freshen the skies of our cloudy afternoon?
Written in December 2017.
Knit Personality Dec 2014
I love the sound of steady-falling snow
Heard through a window casement’s glassy sieve
When everything is off (the radio,
The stale debate on “to live or not to live”),

And the silent fuzz of sound-in-negative
Accompanies the light, dynamic show,—
The freestyle choreography of blow-
ing flakes that drift and spin and dip and dive.

Pacified,—snowed,—blissed-out by this very sound
Is how I’ve spent this Christmas afternoon.
No accident is this, no; nor a boon
Of cosmic chance or coincidence profound:
It’s gentle and mighty Colorado’s gift
To one whose spirits needed—this day—a lift.

* .
Nicole Ashley Apr 2015
I'm in a vulnerable state of mind
Static screams in heavy machinery
A screen of the world in a room of thousands of sounds and lights
It's black and white
It's silent and noisy
It's dark and light
I'm in a vulnerable state of mind
But all of it is white noise
Justin G Mar 2018
Deep into the darkness I dwell
Diligently waiting for a day
I am well

Within this shell
I hope to be heard
Like heaven and hell

Hear her voice
As it trembles
Let thy ears listen

Ignore the silence
That suffocates me
The noise is what
Imprisons me.
Osiria Melody Mar 24
he was quite the talker, words flowing like alcohol.
his words were always blurred, indecipherable.
could never consistently express coherent thoughts,
for his silence always spoke louder than the words
he intended to say.

he slipped through Support's embrace and poured
his troubles out of a bottle of wine.
glass after glass, a crowd of the only visitors that
come by.
submerged his soul in Despair night after night.

his loved ones assume that he's tired and hates
company, but never see the cave of darkness
through his eyes.
in this cave of darkness lies a stash of bottled wine,
inconspicuously hidden in his abode.
as his heart overflows with wine's toxic kiss, the
life within him drains to Death.



Melody
3/24/19
The most painful thing is regret over not saying the words that you wanted to say, so say what's on your mind before it's too late.
JayceeJellies Nov 2014
The racket that shakes the room.
It's loud and irrational too.
You see happy and hear tears.
You can even feel the fear.
Everyone's excited,
For the upcoming years.
But this noise..
It's not calming,
Nor cheerful,
It's confused.
September Roses Jul 2018
Sit back and relax
Feel the waves wash over your back
In the melting sun
Looking at the clouds reflecting all the pinks and blues
Over the blooming hill, echoing white noise of chirps and crickets

Listen to the trickling of the slow water over the smooth rocks
Feel a warm wind brush your face
With your eyes closed
Enjoying the radiating warmth
And the soothing crackling of a log fire

Or sit and admire the shimmering spray
Of a waterfall smoothly crashing into the water of a sky kissed lake
Sunlight dancing through the vapor
Rainbows jumping through every droplet

Listen to the pitter patter of the rain, against a tin roof
Inside a warm cabin
Drifting to sleep
Soon to wake to the song birds chorus
And the blissful sun

Bask in it
And relax
David Hutton Oct 2017
The motion that is an echo of you
are the ghosts that bear resemblance to you.
Mara Oct 2018
Miserable feeling it is
to not hear silence around you
10W
Specs Sep 2018
People communicate too much.
Their arms, their feet, their eyes, their hands.
Each one tells a story.
Each one differs, interfering and weighing the air down.
Then the mouth opens and words fly out,
A whirlwind of ideas, opinions, tumbling, spinning, whipping out.
So much noise.
A message here, a message there.
The noise is blinding.

Outside the garden is buzzing.
Not the droning buzz of conversation,
But the peaceful hum and sigh of nature.
The leaves wave as you walk.
Flower petals whisper to you, succinct words that don't rattle.
Ladybirds, bumblebees, humming birds hurtle and whisk around,
And best of all, the garden listens.
McKala Hanes Sep 2018
Outside of a bar in a North Carolina strip mall, stone cold sober because I am scared to use my fake, I feel drunk as you sit next to me. Perhaps I am. I'd have to be to think maybe, maybe, maybe, when I know, I know, I know.

Your hand brushes against mine, and you're saying the most beautiful words I've ever heard, and the fire in my heart spreads up, down, left, right. But it cannot spread just four inches outside of my body. It cannot set you on fire, too.

We listen to each other and hear two very different things. You are birdsong outside of my window that I am eager to hear; I am traffic outside of your window you've learned to tune out at bedtime.  

If there are nine million bicycles in Beijing, then Beijing is my insides and bicycles are your name, because it is written on my insides nine million times. But there are no bicycles on Antarctica. There is no use for them there, just as there's no use for my name to be perched on a straight girl's ribs.

You tell me my weird hobby of listening to French rap music is awesome, that it's so cool that I'm teaching myself three languages, and that you want to be me when you grow up - I laugh, because you're several years older than me. Selfishly I catch every droplet of your praise.  I ruminate on it for hours, for days. It means more to me than it should.

My name sounds like a compliment from your mouth. I try not to say yours too often, so you don't grow tired of me being around. If I can't set your insides on fire, I want you to want to be my friend. Even that feels like I ask for too much.

In every scene, I see you in the foreground of the narrative. For me, it would be on honor to be one of your background characters. Narratives are richer with them anyway.

I look at you and you are the Harry Potter movie marathon I wait months for. For you, I am the 2 am infomercial you fell asleep to. But I don't mind half as much as I should. Even white noise has its place in someone's life.
enjoy this poem about a one-sided summer not romance not between a bi girl and a a straight girl
It was a mistake.
I shouldn't have seen you.
But my heart longs for you
my heart beats for you
the song my heart plays for you
was louder than the thoughts my head
my head Screaming
NO!
my heart singing
YES!
a clash of noise
I wish
would all f
                    a
                       l
                          l
                      silent.
I wish there were harmony.
madyson shaye Sep 2014
on my good days I am floating, there's background noise and the faint smell of desire, but I move like a needle pushing through skin; deliberate, with purpose. whether I'm the vaccine trying to prevent the disease or the cure hoping to alleviate some of your pain, I don't know. I think I might be a weird mixture of both, but the story is only in its rough draft, so there's no telling on if I work or if I'm just a waste of time.

on my bad days I'm only a silhouette, more background noise, the faint smell of gasoline, the sound of sirens, shady looking men walking down the street in hoodies and smoke in the air from a fire down the street, I am the stray dog, the road ****, the broken down bus and the stars completely covered by smog. if you close your eyes, I'm still there. I think on these days there are people trying to run from me, I know I'm one of them, but we can't get away. red light after red light, 13 miles with a cop on your tail and tags that expired last week, rest assured your shadow always follows you, and so does my silhouette.

on both of these days, I love you. on both of these days I long for you, and on both of these days I am running in an attempt to get ahead of time because it's running out, and I'm not finished yet. I'm not ready to become someone who was, I know that I said I would be okay as long as at some point you remember me as someone who played a part but I am not ready to throw in the cards and become a past tense, not yet, maybe not ever.

I'll be 900 miles away driving away from the smog just so I can look at the moon and know you're standing underneath the same one, I'll be 900 miles away with different background noise then this with my hand in the air wondering how in the hell we're supposed to keep in touch if I can't manage to touch you. you say it's not that far, that I won't fall off the grid, that the months will fly by and I will pick up where I left off.
you say a lot of things.
I whispered that I loved you quiet enough for you not to hear and we hung up.

everything's falling, breaking, the seams are ripping, the hinges are stuck, the car won't ******* start again and I think the locks jammed too with my **** keys inside- and then there's the background noise. it's still all just background noise.
MJL Mar 11
It’s like you are snoring
While you are awake
You emanate noise
Unaware
On and on
It grows
Until it stops without warning
Just a peaceful tease
Then “The Return”
A hit performance
Thoughts from your head in puffs of air being traded for oxygen
You breathe words
I pray to black out
Halt the sound
Bring sleep
But you can’t unplug
It’s like you are a noise machine that is unable to shut off
It’s OK
Repeat the mantra:
     I would miss this when gone
     I would long for the soundtrack of your being
     I would long for the music that is my love
     My Dreamgirl...


Dear Lord...
**** me now
Bit of humor between us. :)
Umi Apr 2018
A dazzling sough,
The wind blows through, across the stunning white clouds, to Earth,
A dearness of the whistling, carrying a, warm breeze makes it worth
Worth but to say nothing less than; praise the new coming day!
Rustling the leafs, shaking them, letting them dance, then sway,
The wind is a transient traveler, rushing through this worldly life,
Gathering clouds together, a delicate drizzle is what they strive for,
Distorting, carrying, leading them towards the ground, wettening them in a scenery of a wonderous sight, fertilising the soil more,
Howling in a showering yet intimitating sense of the changing scene,
Blowing over each drop of pure water on the green coloured grass,
Spring is truly a season where dreams can sore,
It gives us the idea of something greater, something more,
Coming with ups, then downs, it gets carried away by the wind,
Until finally, the sunny days of summer are to come,
Sit down with me, listen to the sighing of the wind, don't be lonesome
By the sound it makes, the gentle song which blows through our ears
Can you hear it whispering ?

~ Umi
White
Black
Light
Dark
Soft
Loud
Calm
Chaotic
Boring
Fun
Which do you hear?
I hear none
I was born completely deaf in both ears. I am lucky enough to have a family who can afford cochlear implants. Others are not so lucky.
Gabriel burnS Sep 2018
screeching blackness
the music is over
the veil has fallen
I am the needle running in circles
spinning its wheels
running on empty
for hours on end
for days ongoing
waiting for the hand to
tear through the shadows
the white noise
flip the vinyl world
and guide me on track
where all I touch
is your songs
where curtains are wings
and my sky is your melody
L B Feb 9
Constant white noise
forced air heat
replaces my mind
Rumbles my bed
Filters my dreams
Nothing natural
as the mites in drafty herds it drives
dries dust
Blows my thoughts
a spring
away
Nothing special-- just an annoyance.
Third Eye Candy Jan 2017
i struggle with the tomb.
i come from the moon to alight upon an earthen vase
to pause upon the lip and swoon.
i am no ghost. but through walls, i come.
lugging a throne of tears and thimbles
of blood... my fire, more dark than the hunter's motive.
my life more spark than the sun's design.

complete me, and i will endure the wane hours
and shun all harm... like the one stroke of lightning
in a cup, swollen with angry bees
affixed to a white sheet of ice... I'll descend into You,
like a lodestone on a chain,
to be hoisted up from the fathoms of Loss
to drown in our madness, just because -
like a noise

in a sound.
Pradeep Dec 2018
To hear a bird singing  
like a flute has come to life,
to hear the water flow
of its own free will,
with a transparent glow.
Of slices of warmth,
of sun's golden cones
splayed upon.
That's silence.

The randomness of the plan
to arrive to myself,
invite me to me,
unravel me to me,
gift 'now' to me,
grand, not showy,
fleeting yet eternal.

The bird stops singing,
the water stops flowing,
my mind is still,
not seeing beyond now,
not seeking beyond now,
finding a sweetspot,
a crevice
through which I fall
uncaring but aware,
deep into a depth unknown,
into a safe and inviting well
of silence.

In the well of wellness,
dusting off layers
of noise cobwebs,
letting peace heal
me with light,
the warmth just right,
I rise more than I fall,
as colors orange, gold and blue
each a kiss on my being blew,
as in mother's womb,
both of us asleep,
silence our lullaby,
setting us free.

A hammock of calm caresses
soft and polite,
half closing my eyes,
whispering to my nerves,
I am home.
Where I come from,
and always welcome
to revisit
the womb of silence.
A horror movie scene as the heroine escapes.
Everything is still besides her convalescing breath and the distant, chasing wind.
Not a noise is heard except the fall leave's rattle and the birch wood's moaning bark in the moonlight.
Her body slouches into the protection of a lone shed, and shrouds itself in the aroma of cut grass.
A tense brow relieves and tired eyes close, thankful to receive the momentary peace.

A possible misstep turns the wary peace on end with the jagged cut of broken leaves. The once relieved brow now concedes surprise as wild eyes are cast towards an opaque barricade.
Sly pieces of garden equipment leash a weathered jacket in place as she attempts to stand.
A cackle is heard, a shriek undone.
To spite the brittle wood, the formulaic jump-scare-skeleton-hand bursts through the shed's solicitous walls, set to declare the last of a weary soul as his own.
The wind catches up and spearheads any hole it can find.
It begins whistling around the dim room like a tornado elated to havoc behind a castle's walls.
The tree bark howls, the leaves, now delight.
We learn there is no reprieve for a begging champion.
The camera slowly backs out of the splintered hole, and pans over a silhouetted forest to face the waning moon.
The hero succumbs with muted screams to a gore far below and out of frame.

Our only closure, a black screen, with bright white letters, slowly scrolling up.


The end.
Just something I had fun writing, figured not posting it would be a waste despite it not being "poetry", just an experiment I guess. I feel like it would be good, in like, a high-school, short story competition. *****.
agrios Jun 19
my mind is sometimes like a white noise machine,

         there is a near constant sound, that only i can hear

it is no hallucination, so i think, as there is a logical

         explanation. you see, i hear what is called tinnitus.

it's the ringing in your ear that you can sometimes

         hear. it can sound like television static, or a faint

ringing noise. for me, it sounds like water from a

         running tap, sometimes it is ringing, or television

static. it is loudest when i am alone, and only gets

         louder as seconds tick by.
September Roses Mar 2018
Little house
Timeless street
Childhood garden

The scent of your preschool playground after a storm on a Wednesday in may

The distinguishable noise of your parents' doorbell

The weepy feeling looking at childhood photos and knowing you'll never get those moments back

The melancholy moment you realize the book you're reading was your favorite bedtime story

The second the atmosphere shifts and you're suddenly thrown back to memories of your mothers embrace on a stormy night

The suffocating feeling of revisiting tales thinning at the ends as your recollection slowly fades

The slipping grip of what once was that will never be again, slowly turning faded and acid washed until its nothing but a feeling you cant put a name to

Nostalgia
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