why do some men
is walking at their own pace,
to the sound of their own tracks
in a rhythm that
beats me slow and I
am still sifting
through unexplored genres and
none of which sound like me;
what is my sound anyway?
and what has any music
got to do with me?
some days i’m the
soft starting melody of
Stairway To Heaven
reverberating in an auditorium
that never deposits back its echoes;
it’s a metaphor for how
no one will ever understand me
in this world, or the other one
that Pink Floyd’s music takes me to
I am the operatic singer screaming
for attention in The Great Gig in the Sky
and in times when no one listens I
turn into the soft whispers of
Elliott Smith’s Waltz #2,
sometimes wishing I was
doing just fine hour to hour
note to note.
But i’m not,
i’m listening to She Used to be Mine,
looking at myself in the mirror
and crying because
the chorus is a little too much about me
and I wish it wasn’t because
it’s not fun relating too much to songs anymore.
I wish I was
just another story
no one had the gall to tell before;
but now I’m spread too thin across the lyrics
whispering into the earphones, singing back, under attack,
a little too exposed.
Get all the good music here:
Tell me which ones you like best!
I’ll meet you
when I’m in a place where
my peace and mourning touch,
intertwined in each other’s ends and beginnings,
stinking of remorse
in the perfect balance of white;
After having moved on from all that was,
waiting to trip over your imperfections.
Before stepping over the line, for once,
to seek a love that feels
more like sympathy and less like affection.
When we talk about stories or anecdotes, we rarely contemplate them in poetic forms. But here is a version of someone’s reality, so unique and laid out in this beautiful verse.
I can’t summarize or enlist my learning from this poem because I know each read has lead me on to a different interpretation, a different conclusion. But that’s what poems are. Open for interpretation.
So all I’ll say is this: how many of us are ‘real’ anymore? Every day, we’re going farther away from who we are. Tell me then, how do we learn to love, and be at peace with our real selves?
if you look for me-
it might be hard, searching for me,
setting me apart from my likeness,
but I hope you don’t give up.
I hope the long paragraphs of my history do not bore you;
I hope you read between my lines.
and so we spend days and nights together,
as you toss me aside and go looking for another
rhyme that doesn’t end as tragically as this one;
look how my ability to find love is so
abysmal, despite my dilapidated state and spine,
reckless poetic verses and metaphors,
darling, I still failed to make you mine.
I’ve never really been a secret diary-
All this while,
I’ve been the open book,
that no one is willing to read.”
I type rhymed verses onto my phone
and chase metaphors;
my dry days are free versed poems
and I’m forced into food strikes when my words don’t gulp down my thoughts;
I draw parallels between slanted lines and
call them straight as I
myself go on tangents, searching for
words to say.
I am a writer of thoughts and
speaker of my own mind,
but lately they have been withdrawing,
fading into the darkness,
hiding behind the blinds.
In a first, I know how to say
but not what;
it’s the knowledge of speech but
the ignorance of word.
So what do I do, when my
saturation point is not too much input but
no output at all;
what do I do when,
I want to shout but
no words would come out at all?