Dark Piano - The Poet
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- Опубліковано 15 вер 2024
- Art by Atey Ghailan! www.deviantart...
/ snatti89
/ atey.ghailan
_________________________________________________
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![5 Pieces by Hans Zimmer \\ Iconic Soundtracks \\ Relaxing Piano [20min]](http://i.ytimg.com/vi/Os47nMrjw_Y/mqdefault.jpg)
Here is the 1 hour version! ua-cam.com/video/7cghZbVbeN0/v-deo.html&ab_channel=LucasKing
Can you please send me the notes?
PLEASE
please more adverstiments P L E A S E!!!!!!!!!
@@jimmilonas1282 5 1 8 6 87 21 04 64 04 80
YOU CAN THANK ME LATER
So relax. I free myself. Love that!🦖💨
thats nearly 2 hours long
I love how the comment section is always filled with poetry. It's such a nice community.
Danny dB true!
Right? It's really refreshing coming here from channels dedicated to philosophy and politics; the comments turn toxic very quick where I come from...
@@jakesanders136 coincidentally, that's exactly how the dead poets society started.
@Danny dB yeah it's true .Just one of my little stupid poem :
You are you
And i am me
So stop trying to change me
Because making me like you
Can't make me love you
Ya
*_THE POET_*
I have been living in this bizarre world,
and, on it, have I found a single place
that keeps me warm in the ice age:
my soul's pillow, my little space.
The room, filled with remnants of the past,
and the paper, completely blank,
they are friends, willing to feel my blood,
with whom I can always be frank.
I feel, I suffer, I cry, I rejoice,
my body senses the world's deepest tears;
the sadness is pounding inside the chest
as we are surviving more menacing years.
And so I shake, I squirm, I bleed,
coughing up things held in for so long:
and so this song was born out of pressure,
for we cannot be forever strong.
My friend, I am only a human being
who cannot help but drown in great care:
this pen, clenched in these sweaty palms,
is my last bubble of fresh air.
Don't take away the only thing I have!
Let the whiteness listen to my noiseless screams!
And, who knows, maybe someone, someday,
will finally be able to hear my dreams.
Deep
Very deep 👏🏼
I read this using the stereotypical anguished poet voice with the music playing in the background. I was not disappointed.
A.M.P.M literally same
Did you write this?
dee no I don’t have that much writing talent
To those of you who are heading towards the comments. There's some really good poetry down there. So enjoy!
King of the watt? Who're the Brihtens?
Thank you, I'm going to do that!
P
That's so cool. Thanks. 🖤
The night is my companion. It's when I feel the most alive with the quietness of the darkness. 3am is the best time to take a walk in my neighborhood,feeling the energy and listening to the night's wildlife
just thought i'd put a little verse from my fantasy world here
raise your glass ,
and say your cheers ,
draw your sword ,
cry your tears ,
for this is the night we fight our fears
👍🏽
My favorite and least contrived poem in this comment section
I love this
If this is for a book or story, I'd love to read it. ^^
This was awsome nise fantasy world:v
Poetry is a hole.
Either you stay out,
Or you fall into it as a whole.
Some will never know what it is about.
Those who climb down,
Will find only obscurity,
There on the ground,
So they return, back to security.
But those who fall down,
In the darkness so blind
Will find a colourful town,
Within their beautiful mind.
Because there is no way,
Out of the hole,
Back to the light of day,
Out of the bowl.
They start to create,
Their own world down there,
To be entered through a magical gate,
And nobody else will ever know where.
So let me explain,
My poetry as a hole,
For my fantasy to train,
Within my very soul.
- The Poet
❣️❣️❣️👌
Deep
👍🏽
It's beautiful.
Hell i could rap that like Eminem
A poet is really just a person who uses the miracle of words to describe tragedies, miracles, stories, or people. Just as a musician is really just a person who uses the miracle of sound to string chords that cause people to feel differently, or a painter who shows the world in its true light.
In a world becoming more and more complex, people are losing the time to experience art; just as it is becoming more neccessary than ever
The world is becoming more simple not complicated
@@ljsherry4464 please explain what you mean
Basically the internet has made our lives easier computers are doing our thinking for us it’s all too easy now people aren’t thinking for themselves I don’t mean everyone but I know the average person thinks a lot more simple and they are fooled into thinking they are smart
It’s like that movie wallee or whatever it’s called
@@ljsherry4464 computers are getting more difficult to understand, physics is becoming more complex as its understanding of the natural world advances. Medicine is so different today than it was a mere 30 years ago that many would be astonished at the "barbaric" treatments used.
I understand your view, that the world is more simple because it is more understood, we are more knowledgeable. But many also have to study these concepts, improve them, and understand how things around them work. The average person knows more than the smartest person a few hundred years ago
Of course I could not resist.
A drop of blue
On yellowed white.
A mind ascue,
A heart´s delight.
One thousand words
To paint a scene.
One, though it hurts,
Is still so keen.
A racing quill,
The lover´s test.
The pages fill,
The mind finds rest.
A truth to know,
A world to feel,
A light to show,
A life so real.
The muses smile,
In contentment,
As pages fill,
With each attempt,
To bend the rules
Expressions set,
To use the tools,
Never held yet.
He would go on,
pour out his heart,
And still he´s drawn,
To work his art.
But at what time
Come hollow words?
Comes no more rhyme?
Do they form herds?
And so he lays
His quill aside.
An artists way.
A poet´s pride.
Lovely poem, the last part truly spoke to me. The hardest part of all my poems is the end and that feeling I get after it's done, is unlike any other. If I may ask out of curiosity, what does "one, though it hurts, still so keen" mean. I've only have two ideas but I would love to hear your thoughts👍.
Your poem is highly underrated compared to others in the section. You have an obvious talent, so I encourage you to write more and use a distinctive style.
@@carryon5021 Thank you, but I don´t think art should be competitive. Also good news for you: there is definitely more to come. Also working on several novels.
@@eliasbischoff176 please do share if you can (・∀・)
That's badass lol.
"you cannot express your feelings but write it down on a piece of paper and what you write turns into a poem a deep dark , lonely poem but your soul is not satisfied its craving for intimacy , closure and someone to heal you".
Life is a song
Pleasure is the hook
Pain is the chorus
The melody lives in every inch of time and space
We all live in harmony with it
Yet few can read its notes.
"I curse my bitter Stars in Grief and Woe, that made my Love so High and me so Low" ~William Blake
THE POET
The page broken,
Crimson ink flows,
Word by word to the floor,
Shattered at the glassy tile,
The silence broken sullen,
Air of blissful taste,
a painting of bloody dreams
An art of wishful times.
there is one part of this nice piece I would change when you say Word by word to the floor i would change it to Word by word flow to the floor just my opinion
Sleepless nights and tireless days
Still I write with things to say
To whom it may concern
I’ll never know
By the time you read this
I’ll be six feet below
But before I’m gone
I have to write
My last will and testament
It is my right
So I leave to you all I own
A pen A paper and this poem
- The Poet
Hey ....you are not serious
That is a great sonnet my friend.
@@claudiagonzales1821 thank you..
@@d-zero7cult964 Hey, this is a fantastic piece, can I adapt it to Spanish? It gave me inspiration
@@blairalquia98 go for it
The random ads that starts playing during this masterpiece are a form of crime against art.
Hack : forward to the end then press replay icon in the middle of the screen then you can enjoy ad free
The night is mine again,
Just me and my thoughts,
A pale light will descend,
Straight down from a rock;
The conquering night will possess,
All light which will fade and compress,
Each hovering spark is a guest,
My mind won't sit still and just rest;
I shouldn't be thinking,
I should be instead sleeping,
Just resting and dreaming,
Of joys of the past;
Instead my mind's racing,
Dark taught it's embracing,
Chasing and facing,
The answers at last;
I finally arrive at my bed,
The only escape from my head,
Release from the sorrow and dread,
The darkness no more; Light instead.
Never had I thought there were so many amateur poets hidden among random strangers. Now I may imagine that everyone hides a heart... Maybe we were all just waiting for an opportunity to reveal ourselves to the world ; waiting for a suitable occasion when no one would judge and no one would discard our work, for everyone, for a brief moment maybe, felt the same and had the same inspirations.
And of course I have to share my own writings !
I am a poet myself, nothing famous and still hidden from the world. Absolutely love this and it's so similar to the music I love writing on ❤️
Lucas, you are a wonderful artist. I'm happy I found your music
A fellow writer! I would like to read some of your poetry, is there an online site you use?
I’m also a poet, a French poet, who loves sharing his writings with his friends to have comments before posting it on wattpad.
I absolutely want to cheer others poets, because each poet has his own universe, and visiting other’s universes is very important to improve your vision of everything.
Ps : not sure if my English is right, sorry in advance if it’s not.
@@falacin5309 Your English is actually very good
The sky i raining, the clouds dark
The poet stand there, his senses sharp
The wind is whispering, and it sounds sad
The poet hears it, and writes with his hand
The book is filled with the words of a wise man
The words of a philosopher, the words of a poet.
Noone can listen the worlds of the wind
Yet the poet stands still there, and burning within.
He listens with interest, with pain, with care
The wind is crying in the left poet's ear
"I have lived many year's, my age has long carried"
The air is in pain hes voice sounds tired
There have been many men, who were big and strong
But noone could have written that poets song.
You know that a composition is extraordinary, to say the least, when the entire comment section is turned into poets. This comment might or might not have been made by someone else, but the sentiment is still echoed in my mind. This music is just beautiful. Magnificent. I am bewildered by this talent and hard work.
To the unknown, i write this song
Speaking of me, but not so long
Don't know why, don't know who
But have faith in me that it's for you
As i see the world and understand it's way,
I recommend to do whatever as you may
Neither gods nor devils, name it who,
Let only soul of yours guide to the real you
As you grow, you shall know,
World is full of people caring deep woe
You are too, having struggle being part of it,
It is because you weren't supposed to fit
To be the difference, follow the light
Which shines within you too bright.
- The unknown
To the known, I write this poem.
Speaking of things, woven into soul, in timeless sand.
In faith, many have received, but in faith they wish to see, is but a wish that does not come easily, and only speaks to two people the wishfull, and the wishless.
If I may do wrong, and supposed it would be my good. It would be good until the illusion breaks, and wrongs will be wrongs and regret.
If no me, to know, to guide, then fall I must? For when things burn close to me, I burn with them, not against.
Yes, the woe, and bleak creeps into the mind and into the eyes, so that all looks stained.
And if no one puzzle ever fit, then every piece would be where it should be.
And light will shine, but if you look too firm, and reach too sure. Surely you would trip, and a fall to be your distortion.
So look around, for the everything can be questioned, known and unknown.
A poem from a wandering writer...
Its a curiosity,
to wonder how many others
feel like this, lonesome
How many others feel the
burden of solitude,
a lack of solidarity
When there’s no warmth
from the frigid winter
we embrace the cold bitter emptiness
existence is as solemn as the silence
There is solace in the stillness of solitary
Its hard to discern
peace from the loneliness
or to find the freedom in
self companionship
to trade communicative interactions
for inner contemplations
and social activeness
for personal reflections.
Meditation
Being alone is good for the soul
once the mind understands that
the only person it needs is the self.
This is the video where all the poets and writers can show their talent, feelings and emotions through their work.
The comments section filled with poetry and the unique piano music unlocked a part of me I didn't know existed. So calming yet so mysterious. The unknown places i walk inside my thoughts and my feelings fear me but not in the bad way.
What is this that I'm feeling?
Something deep in me woke up from a nap that almost felt like an eternity.
Goodbye society I'm going to explore myself without your influence. I don't need you...
...And now with all the calming things that exist I'll go to sleep. The sweetest dream of a non existent world, that only exists in my mind and soul, will run wild.
There was something about this world
Something amazing, yet terrifying
So I decided
To create one myself
Forever a secret
A secret that shall die with me.
Cheers....
👍
That just gave me the chills. That was awesome
A Silent Piano
I crossed the stage lights burning my cheek
I sat
My fingers reached for the keys moistened with sweat
The cold touch sent shivers up my arms
I depressed the first note of the song
I felt the resistance of the mechanism a the hammer struck
No noise
I played but
No sound
I reached for the next note and I heard nothing but an empty thud
Dull and lifeless
I had became frustrated and moved my hands up and down the keys hoping for a single note to ring out
Nothing
I had felt my heart pound and my anger rise
I struck the keys
Rage boiled inside me and I pounded with my fists
Silence
Cold, cold silence
The rage faded and I felt the fear grip my neck like two lifeless hands
Corpses surrounded my mind
Cold dead faces in the stillness
Not a single noise
HELP
HELP ME PLEASE
I screamed yet I felt my pleas fade into the air like a hot breath on a cold day
Isolation
There was nothing
No noise
No sound
No feelings
I was drowning in silence
Nothing but the rhythm of a dull heartbeat
No melody
No harmony
No song
Trapped in complete silence
The black and white keys stood still as I sat there numb
I came to play my song but now I just wish to hear
I wish to feel
Anything
Any sound
I don’t care what it is
I wanted to go to a funeral and shed a tear
I wanted to feel my heart shatter when my wife left me.
I wanted to feel the sting of regret and the bitterness of shame
But all I get is silence
A dull thud in an empty heart
A dead man sitting numb at a silent piano.
Me: creating a different scenario in my head
me too AUYHUAHUAHUA
The poet
Everyone in the comment section: HEY THATS ME!!
Absolutely.
*_maybe you are one too.._*
Hahahha
Listening to Lucas inspires me to play the piano. I want to be this good.
I see the sky lay down tonight and think
Oh so far away
I see the sky lay down tonight and thing
Oh so for today
The moon the stars all here tonight
Yet the sky
I don’t recognize the constellations tonight
*THE POET*
Not every story happy,
And not sad either,
This about a poet,
She misses *the* good old day
She wonders if she will be known as *poet,*
Or will *is* it all worthless,
She is afraid of what will happen when she is *dead,*
She often writes about life and death,
Happiness and sadness,
And most importantly her regrets,
Her poems are like no other,
They have a special spark of creativity,
When she gets home she writes a new poem,
This one is the most important piece,
It is called *THE POET*
So beautiful
I don’t know why ,,but he’s the best !!
He is awesome 👏🏼
Dame right
What u mean u don't know why, you can hear his soul thats why
Bc he exactly knows what you re looking for, he is clever!
Yes he is
The Poet
The paper is my life,
the pencil is my story.
My thoughts pour out,
as if it were raining and pouring.
I take my pain however boring,
and scribble it down while its raining and pouring.
I wander while it rains,
down the street, in pain.
Maybe physical, emotional, or mental.
My pain is part of my story and I express it with this pencil.
The papers are my escape from this dark hellish place,
I feel as if I've never been strong enough,
to finish the 70 year race.
The paper is my life,
the pencil is my story.
The blood from my wrists pours out,
as if it were raining and pouring.
Hummingbird oh hummingbird, take shelter from the rain.
Hummingbird oh hummingbird, how beautifully you dance between the teardrops falling from my cheeks.
Hummingbird oh hummingbird, take shelter from the rain.
This is so incredibly lovely! It's so romantic and mysterious at the same time
"Поэт"
Глаза его, как белый снег,
В тумане мыслей он творит!
И как буревестник - он строптив,
И всем он правду говорит.
Забывчив, мрачен, но склонён -
Думать будет он о нём...
О детище, что будет в нём,
Как говорить он будет в нём!
Времена пройдут одни,
Потом другие и свои,
Но он останется в своём,
Как эхо времени пути.
И все мы знаем об одном,
Он - ярок, пёстр и знаком!
А кто же, если и не он?
Другой поэт на миру том.
(P.S. Hi everyone, I thought and decided that there is not enough Russian creativity here, so I wrote my own verse, which is completely suitable for me on the subject of this video)
To all who read - have a good evening and a good day! Good luck! Addressed from Russia...)
Muy bonito..✨
C'est tres belle!
listening to such tracks, automatically our mind changes the way we think, suddenly we get thoughtful about nuances that are stranger, weird and those which gives us chills. Lucas king man...These are the real gems....Keep going brother.....!!!!!!
I'am a poet who screams are not heard
For my screams are trapped
between the lines of worn pages.
Stained with the memories of broken hearts
And coffee spill , upon a restless nights.
What others do not know is that every
Letter i carve upon this page ; is written
With my blood . The tube within my pen is
non existence for what you see is my vein
Trapped Inside this small confinement.
Each poem that is written by my hand is a letter
To parts of me that long since passed away.
I 'am poet who has been deceased but knows
It not. I'am ghost who continues to bleed not
Knowing that my letters of love and sorrow
Go unheard.
I'am poet who took her final breath by
Her own hand.
Excuse my poor English : I unfortunately cannot express what I really mean... So I will just write that it is truly beautiful, even though I mean much more. Bravo maestro !
Pues compañero, noto que hablas español y pues te digo que pese a la franja del idioma, en los comentarios te vas a encontrar con historias y poesías, con frustraciones y lágrimas, con esperanza y desasosiego; esas palabras transmitidas en una pantalla con letras en inglés, pese a que el inglés en si no es expresivo como nuestro idioma, da a entender el cóctel de recuerdos, de emociones, de pensamientos que estas gentes han experimentado y que al escuchar esta pieza entonada por "Lucas King", se los trae de vuelta. Compañero hispano, aprender idiomas no sólo te amplia la visión del mundo, sino también te darás cuenta cuanto necesitan de nuestra lengua para expresar en su máximo esplendor tales cosas que sienten. Es de mi agrado escuchar estas obras maestra y de leer las poesías en lengua inglesa, saludos desde Ecuador.
Tu ingles es muy bueno, no te disculpes por el
@@juanalejandroorjuelatovar4198 " ,((
.
Mi gato es muy caliente
I'm a poet and this is exactly how I feel. Thank you, Lucas! 💔
Dreading for what tomorrow brings
This heart of mine continues to sing.
I try to snuff it out
But it will not let me be.
Existence is key
But I rather have the door closed
For my sorrows and mind intertwine
Making this painful just to stay.
“Even a blind man can see you care”
Where is this from?:3
@Sample Rate what
The Poet
A seeker of knowledge
A dreamer of hope
A fearer of darkness
A speaker of truth
O how the flames burn
O how the rain pour's
O how the hatred kills
O darkness of night
Shine your shadows for me
For I am The Poet and
Meaning is what I create
it dont rime.
@@rexfelt31 I see
@@darkspiro6467 Y.
@@rexfelt31 if I get angry I will just be criticized for being salty all it is to me is a crappy poem I made I love poetry and all types of art it's not my place to dispute someone's opinion on art so why bother being angry and instead respect you criticism and refine my poems
@@darkspiro6467 That didn't thyme either.
One of the best written pieces of our time. What a privilege to witness! 👑
Rain drops were knocking on her umbrella and heels were clattering through the sidewalk. She let out the air from her lungs which spreaded through the cold night as slight fog.
She slowed her steps down. Behind her she heard one step which was not her own. And silence.
Before she turned around to the step, she had heard a calm, man's voice.
"Who are you?"
Oh my God. Who is that? Is that a criminal?- she thought. Where is my knife? Oh. Wait. I don't have any.
She turned slowly around.
Three meters in front of her was standing a tall, shadow posture. He had a black coat reaching to ankles and a hoodie giving a huge shadow on a face. He had hands in pockets.
She was slowly stepping back, looking for anyone who could help her. But there was no living soul. It got warmer here. Or the adrenaline started to flow through her veins?
He pulled hands out. As she noticed, they had many scars and scratches. But he was not holding anything in them.
"Who are you?"- he asked again.
She let out sphasmathic breath.
"My name is..."
"I do not want your name."-
she heard.-" Who are you?"
Deep silence. He was not moving, like he was just a monument. And she was just staring, trying to notice his face. But the shadow wasn't premitting her.
"Where do you belong?" sounded another question, as calm as the previous one.
"I..." she started. Where did she belong? -"I belong to my university..."
"Wrong answer."
"I... I belong to my family for sure"
"Wrong answer."
She started to think harder. Where did she belong? Where was her place? She didn't feel any sentiment for any place, neither where she was born nor when she learned. Nor here.
"Do I...belong anywhere..?" she whispered to herself. Maybe it comes to some club or subculture?- she thought.
"I like anime, but I'm far other than members of weeb group... I like books, but I'm far other than book fans... " she started to count. "I play chess, but I cannot play with another chess players as I always lose. Finally I like heavy metal, but I differ from metalheads or even metal fans..."
He approached on half-step.
"I don't belong to anywhere"- she said.
"Correct"- he whispered, but voice was hearable. -" Who are you?"
I don't belong to anywhere-she was thinking- I am not either black or white person, neither cold or hot. Who am I? Why am I?
"I... I am no one."
"Wrong answer."
"I don't belong to anywhere, so how could I be someone?"- she moaned.
" Snow is white not because ground is."
"You mean..." she stoped here. How to express it?
"You mean... My identity is not where I belong?"
She noticed slight nod of shadow posture's head.
"I am..."-she stuttered.-" I don't know."
"Birds are birds because they fly. Fish are fish, because they live from swimming- if a fish stops swimming, it is surely dead. Lions are lions, because of roars heard from even the mile- not because they live in Africa."
She took a breath.
"I am...A poet."
She heard sound of breath. He finally took an air to lungs.
"You are."
The silence grew between those two. Silence took whole street like a class before final exams. She finally understood whole conversation.
"I am...a poet. Because It's what I am living from. Because It's how I express and no one forces me to do it. There is no paragon on being a poet- a true poet. It is in heart."
"You finally understood" he said lighter tone than previously. He turned around and was slowly coming where he had come from.
"Please, wait!"- she ran for him. He stopped and turned his head on a woman.
"Who are you?"- she asked. Little smile shined from under the hoodie.
"My name is Doubt. You were calling me many times, do you remember?"
In that moment she reminded herself all those moment when she was thinking about where was her place and who should she be, all times she couldn't answer on that simple question "who are you?".
" I do."
"Now I have to come back."
He was slowly walking away.
"Thank you, Doubt..."-she whispered. -" Farewell."
Doubt heard her perfectly. He turned to her and gave her warming smile.
"It was nice to meet you, The Poet."
And he walked away.
Highly encourage you to write more. It is good.
@@g2s351 thank you :) it matters a lot to me :)
I love the ideas you play with and how well you do it. I agree with G2#S%3 (Who by the way could make it easier to adress them with a simpler username, but I admit, it was kind of fun to use that like a name), you should write more. You have the creativity and you definitely have something to write about. Also you should (if you don´t do that already) read some philosophy. You are already asking the right questions and I like the conclusions you come to. Use your potential, you have a lot of it.
One idea which I love more than anything else in this, is that the poet ends up thanking doubt. It is easy to curse doubt and think we would be better of without it, but as we see in the poet, she grows from her encounter with doubt. Doubt is the difficult starting point for all improvement. Beautifully done!
@@eliasbischoff176 thank you very much :)
Gabriela Kozdrój This is a nice story, i also have thought about creating a character name based on term such as ‘Fear’, ‘Anxiety’, ‘Hope’, some of them are positive energy while some are negative energy or considerably monsters...
Often times the most beautiful people are also the most broken
As a fellow musician, this is some of the best music I've heard
There once was a poet..
She loved to write poems about the Broken.
The shallow,
The empty.
Because she knew that she was one of them.
As she write's like her usual self but
Today is different she stops and doesnt finish the poem.
As shes acostumed to do So.
She gets up from her desk and gets dressed to go out.
Its late at night around 1:30am.
Its raining, she walks for awhile in the light rain.
Entera a shop to buy an umbrella.
When she was out again she started talking the opposite dirección of her home.
Few miles later..
She comes upon a park.
Shes the only one around,
She makes really far Deep into the park.
This park seemed a bit abandoned It wasnt being taken cared off.
She found a run down amusement park.
As she walks towards It a bit curious.
She stops walking.
She noticed a figured Next to the ferestwheel.
The figured sheems to have noticed her and looks at her.
She cant make out the figure, It looked human Shaped but Its height was off.
At first she could have swear its eyes were glowing a dim Green.
But now its glowing a bright red,green, and blue.
The figured made a gestured as if telling her to come closer.
For some odf reason she wasnt scared of it.
The figured took a small step back as if surprised shes walking towards It.
The figured now that shes a bit close wasnt actually human.
It was bases humanoide but It had wings black as the night.
The lamp that was iluminating the path went out.
It was really dark the figured seemed to have left.
Then she felt a light breath around her ear.
She turned slightly.
She saw nothing.
She looked forward again.
There infront of her stood the figured studying her.
".......y....your....n...not...afra..id?" It asked
She was a bit surprised It had spoken.
" Oddly no i am not but i should be shouldnt I?" She responded calmly.
The figured made a gestured that looked like a nod.
"Why....a..re...y..you...here.....alone....th...this..late..at night"
It asked
"I.. dont know to exact i suppose i wanted to take a walk alone at night." She answered
"Why?" It asked the toned had darkened a bit.
"Why? You ask... Because i love the night its quiet.
Mysterious.
I think its wonderful.." she said her eyes glowing a bit the figured noticed.
"Would...y...you.. l...like to....con..Come with me?" It asked nervously..
"Hmmm... Oddly yes i would like to go with you... your... Interesting.."she said taking its shapeless hand.
10 days have passed and shes still no where to be found.
She was reportes missing by her close friend...
3 weeks later
She was nowhere to be found as if the Earth have swalled her without a trace.
* I cant spelled lol*
Im in love with your brain
Reads Title
Immediately jumps to comments
"Oh boy, well, guess I'm doing this now."
Four goddamn months; four, I tell you.
Hours upon end I spent whittling away at a story.
As if I had some piece of mind I continued to
deserve. Some piece of life that still shined an ivory
tone, something that still gave me significance.
My creative mind couldn't fail me of all else, could it?
Never, I thought in answer, and so I type away now.
Each character I see is some sort of signal transit
transitioning, as I write this now, as I break and bow
under the pressure that still gave me significance.
Four goddamned months; four months I spend
repeating myself, without any big thoughts, no greatness,
nothing I could be proud of enough to confidently send
out into the world. Nothing like a classic one would distress
over in school in an effort to keep one's significance.
Four goddamn months.
They never end.
With following it? I'm simply done
It's over, my few thoughts spent.
Now I wait to lose what little bit of my pitiful significance.
If you don't understand any meaning, then simply don't.
This poem is just that, a poem, with no significance.
Fin
This is beautiful.
All us writers, We all feel like this.
Where rain patters on the cobblestone,
so does the feet trample the moss
that gathers
in betweeen the cracks
the grooves
and the broken cement.
Catching pools of illuminated neon orange,
rippling away with the sound of footsteps,
clapping against wet brick.
moving towards the warmth of a fire,
an embrace of maternal love,
and a gown of fresh cotton,
wafting a scent of fabric softener
that reminds you
of daffodils.
There's no place like home.
This music, it evokes something in us, takes us to a place which we have not visited for a long while.
My love for you
İm sorry that my love for you isn’t as vigorous as a burning ember.
İm sorry that my love for you isn’t as bright as the sun.
İm sorry that my love for you isn’t as fragrant as the flowers of our town.
İm terribly sorry that my love is gruesome and cold.
That my love is forbearing you from the warmth, that I regret the most.
İm sorry that my love is as dark as a winter's night.
İm sorry that my love has the smell of smoke and roses past their time.
İm sorry that my love is bleak and daunting.
But can’t you find a speck of gold in the ruins of my heart.
Would that be able to make you stay by my side?
İm sorry that my love is dark as night
Come and drink from the dark and bitter wine that my heart offers you.
Come watch as your life burns away.
Come tangle your dress in the ashes left behind.
İm sorry that my love is dark as night.
Now that's some stuff to read Edgar Allan Poe to.
Hear me out
Dont dismiss me now
I've been less for long
The hum of this song
Infallible inside but wrong outside
Let the embrace of religion distract you
From the deep incisions that the people whom you so adore go for
You dont know
What follows you
So why must you trust something you dont understand
Your hurt but your a man
A broken man
How awful is that
Doesnt It make you angry that everyone gets off from your crack?
Your a game made so that others can catch
And hold you back
Why do you pretend to be the light when you are nothing but a shadow lurking In people sight
What god would allow you to suffer so that others could love
Help me for I hurt at the hand of too much
Words can perfectly describe why I'm too hurt to give love
They can, so use opposite to those words
To save me from then
Why don't you?
Estas piezas son muy delicadas, yo creo que no hay manera de expresar lo que me hacen sentir, son excelentes para las noches en las que el insomnio se mezcla con los pensamientos, recuerdos y la conciencia, gracias por compartirlas
I can write with the melodious sound,
where my soul is being captured and found
because of complex music; so profound.
Night and day, I always tell my tale
like a survivor of the bloody trail
where in this battle I alway not fail,
nor my heart will become frail.
Poetry is praised for its resiliance against the rules of grammar. What makes some poems more impactful than others is its ability to break the rules in the best sounding way.
No poetry. Not today.. for now this cigarette will do.
And this little song. Lucas has always been there for me in the dark...
Enough suffering upon us now such that it shall be a poetry unto itself.
Yes.
For now... I will sleep. May my dreams bring me calm.
I recommend listening to cigarette's after sex. They are really chill.
Invite Hope - Lucy .M
How long?
How long have we been here?
Suffering in silence,
perpetuating violence,
The colours were once vibrant,
Not anymore.
I wish I could unsee, the things I saw.
A broken heart,
A soul so sore,
How long?
How long have we been here?
Drowning in tears,
Submerged in fears,
I have love for my peers,
But not myself,
Addicted to escape,
No care for my health.
Still I dream,
I dream of something great.
How long?
How long have we been here?
My soul calls for home,
No one picks up the phone,
I clutch onto hope,
Yet feel so alone.
What is real?
What is real?
What is real?
Reality is a projection of our worst nightmare.
All one in the same,
Inside this melting pot.
Feelings buried deep within,
But never truly forgot.
La toupie s’étourdit en oubliant le monde.
Petite et jeune et folle, elle file enivrée
Et le fil de sa vie s’étire et flotte au vent.
Elle est vaine et ardente, elle est pointue et ronde,
Dans une pichenette elle s’est délivrée
D’une main invisible et fi de tout, d’avant !
Avant… une grande lourdeur…
Un coin de sombre monotonie...
Une force d’absence et d’attente…
Une résignation à la pesanteur
Qui soumet, assourdit en monophonie,
Attend toujours pareille en attente éprouvante…
Mais voici le départ ! c’est l’élan ! l’aventure !
Légère appréhension d’un destin qui s’approche…
Légère virevolte ! Et valse au gré du temps :
Car la toupie jamais, jamais elle n’oublie
La fin mais maintenant, rien qu’un instant susurre
Qu’elle veut s’accomplir et va, pas de reproche !
Elle doit donc finir ? Elle sait ! Et pourtant !
Pourtant rien qu’un instant dans sa vie de toupie…
File sans garde-fou, ni filet ni “nenni” !
Sans souci, sans futur, la vie file et s’évide,
Danse, et dans son élan, dédaigne les dénis !
Rien ne reste : à l’air frais d’un roulis trop rapide…
Hé ! Chahute et gigote, elle vrille et vacille
Se penche, se rattrape, gite, elle chipote,
Équilibre bancal, voué à… mais je cille :
Fin. Bruit. Elle s’allonge, elle repose, elle dort… sotte.
I know this is probably wrong but here's the Google Translate version of this probably wonderful poem (that will probably get butchered):
The spinning top is stunned forgetting the world. Small and young and crazy, she spins off intoxicated And the thread of her life stretches and floats in the wind. She is vain and ardent, she is pointed and round, In a flick she freed herself With an invisible hand and ignored everything, before! Before. great heaviness. A corner of somber monotony ... A force of absence and expectation .. A resignation to gravity Which submits, deafens in monophony, Always waits like a trying waiting. But here's the start! it's the momentum! adventure! Slight apprehension of an approaching destiny. Slight twirl! And waltzes over time: Because the top never, never forgets The end but now, only a moment whispers That it wants to be accomplished and goes, no reproach It must therefore end? She knows ! And yet! Run without a guardrail, no net or "ney"! Without worry, without future, life spins and hollows out, Dance, and in its surge, disdains denial! Nothing remains: in the fresh air of a roll too fast ... Hey! Heckles and wriggles, she twists and wobbles Bends, catches herself, heels, she quibbles, Balance wobbly, doomed to. but I blink: End. Noise. She lies down, she rests, she sleeps ... Fool.
(I did this out of curiosity and for others curiosity if you think this is an atrocity I'll delete this comment).
(Edit: btw eventhough it probably got slaughter. I believe it's a lovely poem)
@@ml1487 Thank you very much ! I never thought it would interest someone enough to warrant a translation. ^^
Here is a more accurate translation from DeepL, with corrections by me. My english is not great, but it should keep roughly the essential.
The spinning top gets dizzy and forgets the world.
Little, young and silly, it rushes forth exhilarated
And the thread of its life stretches and waves in the wind.
It is vain and fiery, it is sharp and round,
In a flick it was released
From an invisible hand ; away from everything, from before!
Before ... a great heaviness ...
A corner of dark monotony...
A force of absence and expectation...
A burden of resignation
That subdues, deafens in monophony,
Always waiting the same in a grueling wait...
But here is the start! Momentum! Adventure!
Fleeting apprehension of a looming destiny...
Fleeting twirl! It waltzes at the lull of time:
Because the spinning top never, never forgets
The end. But now, just for a moment whispers
That it craves fulfillment and no cost is too great!
So it will end? Yes, it will, and yet!
Yet only for a moment in its spinning fancy...
Flies without safeguard, neither net nor "nenni"!
With no worries, no future, life moves on and off,
Dance, and in its burst, disdain the denials!
Nothing remains: in the fresh breath of one too many rolls...
Hey! Jiggling and trembling, it twists and wobbles
Leans on a side, pokes and sways to the other,
Unstable balance, fated to... but I blink:
The end. Scratch. It lies down, comes to rest, sleeps... fool.
C’est magnifique 🥰
Ha enfin du français :) C'est très beau j'apprends de ces mots ils m'ont donnés quelques frissons avec la musique
Wow. I've been on a UA-cam piano binge for months and this stopped me in my tracks.
thank you it helped me to express myself in poems:
Solitude is an open wound
That bleeds the soul of the lonely wolf
His eyes filled with tears flow
As he howls to the moon in the starry sky
There's nothing sadder than the wolf's cry
That searches in vain for a company to love
But the darkness of the night is his only witness
While he cries in despair and solitude
His sad song echoes through the mountains
And throughout the vastness of the dark night
But no one can hear his pain
Only the echo of his voice that endures 🥲🐺
That's good!
Time advances faster than oblivion, but oblivion will always reach our conscience, time is then something personal that can change not only everything, it also changes "( ... )"
... I don't know if what I wrote can make sense for those people who read it, the answer will come when you have forgotten about this by now
Poem 1
When tree top leaves chatter
And I hear the wind blow
I feel like myself
And I listen more carefully
As I enjoy the scenery
I think back
Spokes on a bike
When I was younger
Full of dreams
Full of hunger and wonder
I wanted to be big
As big as loud thunder
And while I ponder somebody wanders
My eyes watch them lazily
I get bored and move on
My life’s like that
Or is it?
I wonder.
-The boy
You know what, other things beside, it just gets me every time how long your compositions are. And i've listened to hour + compositions lots of times, it's fine, but the way your musical narrative unfolds, it's just precious.
absolutely beautiful
it's been a while since I wrote a poem, but I want to give it a try, it seems fitting now more than any time else
a poem,
it could be everything to a mortal,
or nothing more than words,
written on a piece of paper,
never to be seen again.
the poets,
the wizards who's words,
either leave a sour taste,
or a sense of home and honey,
to one's soul,
or something so dark,
the devil himself would feel dread.
when a poem is written,
by the skillful mind of a broken,
the words cut through,
so deep it leaves scars,
the blood blacken by the soul.
but when written,
by someone with the heart of a dove's feather,
the words flow,
like a river flowing through a forest,
the words so soothing,
children seize to weep,
so deep it leaves you to sob alone.
my poems?,
depends on who read it,
some say they left a taste of acidic lemon,
others left with a taste of honey and sugar,
my poems?,
to me they are nothing but words,
words that bother my mind to the point that,
my heart heavy and my mind awake,
words forever haunting the mind of a broken,
to me,
they are nothing but words,
and only words.
I find that resonates with your masterpiece dear ,
Your poem sparked an old yearning to write
For the sake of writing . That every word that echo inside
My mind bring my heart down sickness. How the words of other have left the taste of home or sweet longing on the tip of my tongue. I applaud you , very well written.
@@estellaevans266 aaaww thank you! I appreciate it! I'm very glad you liked it! have a very nice day!
@@anisseezra68 Your welcome ! And i send back to you a very beautiful morning afternoon and evening.
The detective kept her eyes on the sidewalk in front of her, hardly noticing the heavy rain and somber atmosphere of the dreary rain-soaked town. Her mind was lost in the facts of the case. Eight people all dead, left in grisly manner to lie in state, their bodies twisted into shapes most unnatural and disturbing. A man stepped out in front of her.
“Ma’am,” he said. “It is not a nice night to be out alone.”
The detective looked up. The man was dressed all in black, with a long dark coat and a broad and dark hat. His eyes were curiously bright blue.
“I’m sorry,” the detective said. “Do I know you?”
“Oh, not personally, madam. Yet I am sure you are familiar with my work. “
The detective looked at the man again, trying to determine if he was famous.
“What medium is your work?” The detective inquired.
“I am a poet,” the man said simply. “My medium... well, that is up for interpretation. “ The man laughed, and it was not a particularly nice sound. It seemed to convey more malice than mirth. “Not everyone can appreciate my work. To many it is repulsive. They consider it... unseemly. “
The detective began to edge away, suddenly very suspicious.
The man continued, “Is there not a beautiful irony in the human nature? As a whole the ugly truths are shunned in favor of beautiful beautiful lies. And so we wrap ourselves in suffocating layers of rancid lies, attempting to appeal to the ugly truth of humanity: we are all hideous inside. I simply reveal this inner monster in all of us.” With this, the man lunges forward and seized the detective.
Many weeks later, the body of the detective was discovered. Directly next to her broken frame lay a broad brimmed black hat and a long black coat, neatly done up, with the message “The lies have been removed” scrawled on the floor.
I must admit this indeed very beautiful , the voice behind your words are rather alluring . With much practice am sure your work will be embraced by many. The grammar needs work but that something we all struggle with. Apart from this i applaud you. Mystery , murder , and the questioning of human nature . beautiful very beautiful
@bein_ smithy Am glad to hear that you agree.
"God must enjoy killing, he does it every day. And are we not made in his image"
Very good!
write a book
Smashed the like button after the first three notes.
Come on, you knew this was gonna be good.
There is a reason "King" is in his name!!!
Es posible un alma más desdichada que el del poeta?
sólo con palabras y versos puede expresar las emociones de lo más bello
como espectador frente al escenario solitario, aquel que no alcanza su deseo,
intentar atrapar con sus manos el amor como aquel imposible amante en las tinieblas del recuerdo.
I wrote for my morphing soul
And wrote with words that changed
But the same story told
My feeling made to silent rage
The music that rains
The times have showed me in piece
What I am and
What I’ve been made to see
All must go on
And I must hold on
These words the cliff
From which I must cling
Beneath a rift;
Oh what a lifeless thing
What to blame?
But my heart alone.
A heart that eats
Things beyond what my eyes can see.
All dark and light;
Weight, I must relieve
Or a flame to reprieve
So ashes can cling
Away from me.
Jonah this is wonderful. You have something!! :)
This dream is a torture of sights! :
The reflections, the sounds,
the deepness of interpenetration!
O how I love to sleep, to forget!
Please bring me nothing new, no new harnesses, no new traps or strangling stitches in the Night, but Come O ye Dreams!
Unto my folding diamonds
this velvet whip
who hovers within or above or beyond..
silencing acute agonies
Dissecting prisons
absorbing poisons and penetrating frequencies Absolutely...
O amber liquid, let me rest among you! Among the Void,
A beast scrambling in rocks,
A thorn protecting fruit,
A veil concealing a weapon,
Until frogs sing enumerations
Summoning a hymn within a hymn...
I have experienced this channel in the past and find your peace at infrastructure of obtaining a narrative is possible, a community of 800 is enough to evolve... so much beautiful imagery and character. You are all part of a play that is a dance in my mind,i cannot tell you the peace i see in the community truly there is so much mind to build here, however lucas king has done a great job at this, i leave you with a token of joy, use to write poems on here...
If i was or if i may i would say do not delay the sea that spreads the waters say you have washed me all away, i found the poet in under review and fell apart and all anew, i do not see the things i do only just snicker for a second or two, the old man might have found himself before, i wonder how much happiness could be before he fled the night or awake by day, the poet if i may, such an exhaustive art the process of falling apart i could not tell if that was morphine or pot but perhaps it was alot more than concious and on the spot, peace out old dude ive learned my lesson, to be the poet you gotta live in heaven.
I’m so happy this is up! Definitely one to help with writing; has a mysterious undertone 🧐🔍
I've recently started writing poems I'm not sure if they r good enough to be called poem so here's one:
Words r like sharp swords,
Like sharp swords to kill someone,
Or like sharp swords to kill someone s sorrow,
Words r like scars,
It will heal,
Still will leave a mark,
Words can be forgiven,
But nvr forgotten,
Words r like rain,
To cause flood in someone,
Or to cause growth in someone's life,
Hurtful words will cuz pain,
A heavy pain inside our chest,
Drags us to places we don't wanna go,
Words may call upon darkness in someone's life,
Words may call upon hope in someone's life,
So watch ur words.....
(PS I'm a beginner at this so excuse me if I didn't understand poetry)
One of my favorite things... seeing a post alert from Lucas King 🔔🖤
when the birds are falling from the sky
when the sky is dark and oceans are dry
when the plains turn to grey and mountains are shy
when the clouds start to sing, and the trees are able to fly
there i sit in the dark with nothing to do, but cry
there i see my cigarette ashes, about to fall from my eye
there i see in the darkness, nothing but a single lie
there i see in my heart,i only need hope to get by
"unfortunately myself"
This is really, really lovely - I mean, all of your works are, but this has such a calm and bittersweet aura to it that I just adore. It really helps with drawing or just relaxing. Thank you so much!
There’s always something about classical piano music that makes me vividly day dream about losing my family to a horrific accident, in which leads to my insanity...
This one doesnt really have anything to do with the music, its just the vibe i got.
I stood in the middle of the street, rain dropping down on my umbrella ever so slowly, but each drop had the weight of a freight train. Puddles lay in the divots of the road, ever expansive, despite being so small compared to a even pond. The cold bit at my nose and ears, and the air was heavy.
Just behind my nose, between my eyes, I had the feeling. The feeling of wanting to scream at the top of my lungs. But I couldn’t, I didn’t want anyone to hear.
There was nobody around, nobody ever came here. Still, I knew someone would hear me for sure if I screamed.
I leaned against the cold brick wall of a storefront, any sign of what the place sold had been washed away with time. I had to go home at some point, but I couldn’t, not yet.
The streetlamps here still worked. I had no idea why, since nobody ever came here. It was as if the city felt the need to illuminate this street, maybe for fear that something would change if it were dark.
As I stared into the hazy light of the streetlamp across from me, I heard a noise on my left. Of course, anyone walking alone out here on a night like this is sure to be a little paranoid, so I turned to find the source of the noise.
All I saw was the back of a foot escape into the alleyway beside the store. I waited a few seconds, then cautiously made my way to the corner. In the dark, all I could see was a swift orange glimpse of light at the far end of the alley. But that was nothing compared to the noise.
The sound of the scene still haunts me. A gasp, shuffling of two bodies, and the visceral sound of crunching and ripping. I heard a body fall onto the pavement, then more sounds of gorging and tearing. Then a soft flicker, like a snake’s tongue, followed by slow and heavy breathing.
As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I saw several luminous orbs, watching me like eyes. Then the outline of the creature made itself clear. As clear as it could be anyway. It was shapeless, appearing to have the legs of a man, but a large and formless upper half. I swear I saw a tail, maybe two or three.
Then i saw the other person, laying on the ground, blood shining in the lamplight, their head and torso caved in, several ribs protruding from the chest. The blood flowed slowly towards me, as the monstrous thing stared me down.
I backed away slowly, putting some distance between myself and the thing. After a few seconds I broke into a sprint, not stopping to look back. I didn’t hear the thing chasing me, but that wasnt going to stop me from running.
The streetlamps glowed down at me, their bright light piercing my very soul. Even the moon gazed at me from beyond the clouds. Losing myself in fear, I payed no attention to my surroundings. Soon i found myself face first in the dirt.
As I returned to my feet, I finally took the time to check my surroundings. It wasn’t there. It was long gone. As I continued to walk home, ducking my head down as not to draw attention to myself, I had the thought that perhaps the thing wasn’t real. Maybe it was simply a figure of my imagination. As this thought raced around in my head, I found my apartment door.
I couldn’t grapple with the thought. If it did exist, then what chaos would it cause, and what damage would it deal? And, if it was merely my imagination, then why does that thing lurk in my mind?
Nice story
Really don't know why people don't like it you are such a good writer love your story keep it up.
I want you to make movies and books
@@ljsherry4464 omg thank you this is such an awesome compliment. The same goes for the other replies.
His eyes turned black as the night crying bloody tears in a bloody moon night-.
In this quest to find love I have lived life sequentially only to fall in love with death - The Poet
What the heck did I just stumbled into… perfect music. I just lost myself in the comment section. Thank you so much for the music and thanks for the
Poems in the comment section. Bravo 👏
Why is pain so comforting?
I will never understand
As the darkness creeps in
And my heart turns black
As my anxiety comes to a hold
There is peace in this darkness
As if life was still
My minds not racing
I feel so calm
Like the waves of the ocean
Or the drops of the rain
Falling on the window
Like a soothing song of pain
PS:- incomplete just wanted to share
Mesmerizing.
Yes
Remembrance
A silence awakens remembrance.
The night nails a scream in my throat.
A breeze blows I hear its ascendance.
A cricket that seems not to stop.
Some voices, some feet hurry over;
A whipping that goads and a trot
And lights like amoebas that cower
In my soul like owls to naught.
I stare to the darkness so deep
And the heart of the light I do seek
Where millstones of the yore did creep
To grind me amid stones that squeak.
A silence in psalms of remembrance
Like today, yesterday, thousands of years
I dig in myself for some temperance
Like embers in ashes disperse.
Riza Braholli Mborja
Oh! My friend! It is always a pleasure to contemplate your art; what wonderful songs. I’m sorry I didn’t like it lately, because I’ve been very busy, but whenever I have time, I’ll watch your videos and enjoy it. You are a master of good taste, capable of bringing (by the grace of God) beauty to everything you touch.
I love your art, I love your passion for sharing with us something as intimate and beautiful as this wonderful gift you have.
Hugs from Brazil!
This is a perfect piano concert for September mood in Saint-Petersburg ). A grandmaster's piece!
Oracle pen
Every one did write
So I might tonight
Ink out the words in my heart
I see smiles in the dark
The face of time on my palm
As I type I run out of words
My mind blowing strength
If it's done,it was with every breath
Each note is like a drop of rain even fell to the ground that enchants you this feeling of listening and questioning about silk and life.
I know this doesn't really fit with the theme of others people's poems, but this song really sparked up my creative juices, and I've had this idea to some extent for the longest time. It's still just a draft and was written on the spot, so any advice/criticism would be welcomed
Walking down what once was a bustling road, now filled with rusted cars and mossed concrete, you hear a faint song humming from an old speaker. You’re not really sure what happened that day, you’re not even sure how you got here or why you’re walking down this specific lane, but it seems oddly familiar. It’s all a blur honestly, it feels so long ago yet at the same time, it's as if it happened just yesterday. You can’t even remember the names of who you were with, let alone their faces.
You remember walking down this exact road with one of your friends? No, it was your mother, or was it a co-worker? You can’t seem to recall, either way, if it was that important you surely would’ve remembered. You had been walking down the road to see the newest movie that had been released, you’re sure it was an action thriller of some sort but another part of you says other why’s. When you had shown up to the front desk an ecstasy of panic and fumbling formed around you, hundreds of people fleeing and screaming within a moment's breath.
After a while, it just stopped. You closed your eyes after seeing a bright light outside and your ears started ringing with panic. After opening your eyes once more and gaining back your hearing, you could see what seems to have been an explosion, miles away from where you were. You immediately understand why people were panicking as you started to jolt in the other direction holding the hand of who you were with. After sprinting for a few seconds, you noticed your hand felt empty. You turned around to see them sitting there, staring at what was ahead of them. You tried calling out for them and even went as far as trying to pull them along with you, yet they didn’t seem to budge. After what felt like hours of trying to get them to move you heard what seemed to be jet engines, along with seeing more and more explosions close in around you, you decided that it was either you live or die with them. The panic along with the adrenalin from impending doom made anything afterward a faint memory, a glimpse of what was.
You snap back to where you are, now being miles further down the road from a local corner shop. Before coughing up more blood, you saw another one of those, things, you can’t even remember what others called them, Scramblers? Loomers? Whatever they were you were sick of having to fight them off. After killing and looting those things you and your partner decided to take a rest in a nearby building. You’re not quite sure how they survived after that day, but you’ve been glad to be with them again ever since you’ve found each other. You could feel inside you as you stumbled to sit down that, this is it, this is where you die. They had assured you that it wasn’t over, that you had plenty of time to keep going on. In the middle of your thinking, you hear that same old piano from before, when you were once so young.
“I hear music”
“You do?”
“Yes, a piano of some sort”
“I don’t hear a thing”
“I know”
“You know?”
“I do”
“How can you tell?”
“If you heard it, you’d know you’re alone”
“That’s nonsense, I’m right here standing next to you”
“I wish you were”
What have we here, laddie? Mysterious scribblings? A secret code? Oh, poems, no less! Poems, everybody!
❤️
You are the best friend I could ever dream of accompanying me to my office to work. Thank you for being there and for what you are doing.
“Beyond far and wide, my mind shatters like glass in a bright storm,
The gloom in my eyes only becoming darker as I wished for the storm to end, rain pouring over me as my tears down my face, only wishing for the pain I feel in my heart to go away,
Every day my eyes closing slower, losing sight of what I once dreamed of long ago, the blood in my veins running colder each moment, as the curse of hate was put upon me, generation after generation,
The curse coiling around my conscience as tight as could be, forcing the love I once felt away. With love I bring forth hate, the protection of the ones I care for becoming my first concern, or so it used to be. With love comes hate, with faith comes resentment, with hope comes despair.
I am now lost, feeling nothing in my heart as my face is now numb. A part of me wishing I could feel again, then realizing the only thing I felt before the numbness was pain. The world knows pain, you will feel it. I cause pain, for there is nothing and no one I have to love, to live for. Everyone I care about has perished, bringing my love down into the ground with them.
I am nothing anymore, a body without a soul.
It is too late, now. It is now time for The Poet to stop telling the story. “-Me.
❤️
feels like i'm being obsessed with it wth!
The Poet,
No one knows who they are, or were.
Man or woman known not.
Only the ink was known
Spread upon the world
On papers made of the finest trees
Words came alive at their fingertips
Flowers, tears, and hope
Came alive and danced across
The evernight sky
But why?
Why?
Was the answer yet the question.
For in secret
The Poet hid
And there...
They, whoever they may be
Shall hide for eternity...
I hate the 10 second commercial that comes out of nowhere in this song.
Feel the cold winter breeze,
The warmth of your hands touching my skin,
Having you face to face and being able to kiss your lips
It makes me shudder that you're not here.
Go outside and think that I haven't seen you since that December,
That April we went out to walk hand in hand,
The innocence of my being to want to follow your steps and look for your silhouette
Oh love, can't you see I'm dying to have you, I long for your arms.
Those days we used to share
And those nights of starry skies
Now I realize how far you are
And that you are lost in the distance.
My life, I would like to feel you so close, but as much as I ask for it,
Your love doesn't seem to knock on my door
My house has been waiting for you since that spring,
My walls cry for you …
lost in time
between air and vacuum
I've seen death
shrugged at glance
Shaken, but whole
I lie in wait
for hopes rage
what a wonderful work.
It really calms me down when I have very dark thoughts