Day 2nd
I turn on my music playlist
Searching for playlist called "Depression at Its Peak"
I know the title sounds too corny, but what the hell, my playlist, my rules
I try to sing alongside with the singers, enjoying those scar filled songs
Those kind of songs you will call "It's really me"
When the singers sing the low note, I try to tone my voice down
I suddenly feel blue
When the singers sing the high note, I try to tone my voice up
I suddenly feel hyped up
It's magical yet creepy,
How songs can manipulate your moods, your feelings,
when you visualize the meaning behind those music notes, in your abstract mind
It's fascinating yet unnerving,
One minute I laugh,
Another I cry..
I'm changing colours,
Like a disco light..
I'm not right,
I'm all wrong..
But I've been hurt,
So I'm singing this song..
You don't know me,
You will never find,
No chords attached,
That's how I like it.
I'm a fairy, with no wings
I'm flying in my sleep
You think I'm crazy,
You are thinking alright.
Everything is different now
You used to have me
Now you have her
The laughter throughout the night
An echo branded into my brain
Gone, like the leaves on the trees
You share that with her now
Staying up well past midnight
Exploring our darkest secrets
Fitting them together like a puzzle
I guess your pieces fit better with hers
We used to have a never ending song
Always in constant harmony
I suppose not everything lasts forever
Then again, you've known her longer
Yet I linger here, waiting
O bury me not in:in the little room, like a worm in a one-by-one
padded & colorful, far from the madding birds ---
O bury me not in long unrequited dreams
O bury me not in the margins of identity, voiceless & meaningless
O bury me not in 'September Songs'
in offbeat secret memories
behind the veil of pride, under vanity's shawl
Are all the days the same in December
Are all the days the same at noon
Are all the days the same in the night
All the days are the same in never stopping
All the days are the same to wake up hope-short
All the days are the same day-over-day hobo wardrobes
Are all the nays the same into night, were day spread
all over the bed, all over the bedroom,
And there will be time
it was said
to follow the goat-herd
into the mountains
and dance to the
shepherd's music.
But the rain
was strong
insistent
and long.
Our heads wet
we slept together
on the hay
with only a song
for passion.
You can raise the dead,
make yr walls crumble.
(Now! the towers give way,
tumble like the sky
runs before a storm)
You talk long enough,
youll join yr own song.
Sure you can raise the dead--
Dont hesitate,
but watch what youre making.
How it moves without you
She looked back
Going through her whole life until now
And she found out why songs never sounded the same
Why orchids were her favorite
Why she loved to dance
Why singing made her smile
And why just stopping to breathe helped her recap
Decisions make us even if we don't see it
Music can change
My mood
So quickly
Because
I can listen to a song
That's three minutes long
And be affected
By lyrics
Tunes
Melodies
For years
Before man came to blow it right
The wind once blew itself untaught,
And did its loudest day and night
In any rough place where it caught.
Man came to tell it what was wrong:
It hadn’t found the place to blow;
It blew too hard--the aim was song.
And listen--how it ought to go!
He took a little in his mouth,
And held it long enough for north
To be converted into south,
And then by measure blew it forth.
By measure. It was word and note,
The wind the wind had meant to be--
A little through the lips and throat.
The aim was song--the wind could see.
I have wished a bird would fly away,
And not sing by my house all day;
Have clapped my hands at him from the door
When it seemed as if I could bear no more.
The fault must partly have been in me.
The bird was not to blame for his key.
And of course there must be something wrong
In wanting to silence any song.
I would sing a song
but I have no words
I would hum a tune
but I have no melody
success
like grains of brown sand
at the sea-shore
slips through my nerveless fingers
the world
has not time
even to laugh.
I am the Minister of Leaves who writes memos in re:
deciduous policy. I strike compromises
between the forest and the trees.
Someone in the Ministry is singing a song,
a green song as insistent and calm as
succulent leaves in the Amazon Basin.
I am promoted beyond bureaucracies
of my own beliefs, am carried
on melody to ancient stands of timber.