"straitens" poems - Hello Poetry

The lonely notes flowing, falling, leap from The thin and flitting fingers of the pianist, The cup of melancholy, drained to the dregs, bittersweet in that the love of happiness and joy is tempered now, from longing for the delicate and pensive feel, that comes from dipping into the small and lonely pool of melancholy. Grief, a distant specter, hovering in the fringe of chance, is nearer now, melancholy, the doorway, slides open on silent hinges, and admits the crushing tide. High, high, and faster still, the pianist falls, slowly down and up again, grief, the storm, disrupts the flow of sound and silence, and incorporates itself into the threading melody, and so erodes the shores of joy and laughter, the violet waves of gentle melancholy, laced with the thinnest threads of blackest grief, sighing on, erasing so, youth and joy and light and life. The melody falters, stills. The pianist alone, playing for an empty quiet, rises, pauses, his fingers brushing, the cold steel of empty death, smooth beneath his touch. He grasps it, lifts it to face him, hands steady, gaze unfaltering. The man is still, pianists fingers gripping that instrument of death, and time passes, unheeded, ignored. In a motion refined to elegance by the passage of time and repetition, the pianist places that cold instrument of steel and intent gently, down upon the polished black. He straitens, slowly, and settling his black overcoat close around him, he turns, walks quietly to a closed and silent door, lifts the latch, and into a swirling night of snow and light, walks out, and closes the door behind him with a soft and quiet click. And all is silent.

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Mar 31, 2015

Mar 31, 2015 at 8:38 PM UTC

christian-l-bixler

Wistful Melancholy and Threads of Grief

The lonely notes flowing, falling, leap from The thin and flitting fingers of the pianist, The cup of melancholy, drained to the dregs, bittersweet in that the love of happiness and joy is tempered now, from longing for the delicate and pensive feel, that comes from dipping into the small and lonely pool of melancholy. Grief, a distant specter, hovering in the fringe of chance, is nearer now, melancholy, the doorway, slides open on silent hinges, and admits the crushing tide. High, high, and faster still, the pianist falls, slowly down and up again, grief, the storm, disrupts the flow of sound and silence, and incorporates itself into the threading melody, and so erodes the shores of joy and laughter, the violet waves of gentle melancholy, laced with the thinnest threads of blackest grief, sighing on, erasing so, youth and joy and light and life. The melody falters, stills. The pianist alone, playing for an empty quiet, rises, pauses, his fingers brushing, the cold steel of empty death, smooth beneath his touch. He grasps it, lifts it to face him, hands steady, gaze unfaltering. The man is still, pianists fingers gripping that instrument of death, and time passes, unheeded, ignored. In a motion refined to elegance by the passage of time and repetition, the pianist places that cold instrument of steel and intent gently, down upon the polished black. He straitens, slowly, and settling his black overcoat close around him, he turns, walks quietly to a closed and silent door, lifts the latch, and into a swirling night of snow and light, walks out, and closes the door behind him with a soft and quiet click. And all is silent.

17

Embellishing our relationship in the euphoria of our artificial affections spoil me; until Reality straitens my smile

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Jun 11, 2014

Jun 11, 2014 at 9:06 PM UTC

shanay-love

In My Pretending

Embellishing our relationship in the euphoria of our artificial affections spoil me; until Reality straitens my smile

7

We are all desperately unique We are all crazy All awkward All different But the same We are all the loud one Because we fear the silence We are all the strange one Petrified of normal The out-of-control car Careening along It over-corrects Until it is too late Once All that was not perfect was unusual All that was unusual was wrong Now, all that is not outlandish is normal All that is normal is offensive Obscene to the eyes of those who cannot accept The beautiful alike Society has done away with the usual Cast out the status queue Spat upon the normal For it is the normal that is their nemesis It is the inconspicuous that shows their demons We are all the same None of us vary None different None strange We crave the attention Gasp in a mad scramble for beauty Desire We need to be different Grasping at qualities that are not there Not needed We ignore what exists Searching for what does not We desperately to change We must accept the mundane Embrace the usual For it is only in the usual, blank whiteness That colors can shine That the unique can flourish The car straitens We are not different We are the beautiful alike

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Feb 17, 2017

Feb 17, 2017 at 12:45 PM UTC

max-garner

Beautiful Alike

We are all desperately unique We are all crazy All awkward All different But the same We are all the loud one Because we fear the silence We are all the strange one Petrified of normal The out-of-control car Careening along It over-corrects Until it is too late Once All that was not perfect was unusual All that was unusual was wrong Now, all that is not outlandish is normal All that is normal is offensive Obscene to the eyes of those who cannot accept The beautiful alike Society has done away with the usual Cast out the status queue Spat upon the normal For it is the normal that is their nemesis It is the inconspicuous that shows their demons We are all the same None of us vary None different None strange We crave the attention Gasp in a mad scramble for beauty Desire We need to be different Grasping at qualities that are not there Not needed We ignore what exists Searching for what does not We desperately to change We must accept the mundane Embrace the usual For it is only in the usual, blank whiteness That colors can shine That the unique can flourish The car straitens We are not different We are the beautiful alike

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