Thu, 06/30/2016 - 17:35 -- Siluxis

The notion that one becomes a poet through others to me is strange

I grew from artists composer those with words unnoticed

sometimes you forget the roots of poetry being music 

I want to be the voice of mozart the singer for leonardo

Screaming as the sonata goes on forever into the unknown 

from the heartbreak of the interlude

to the voice of good speaking from he above

looking back to the pillar of dissatisfaction

to being a human who only sees those hes believed

only become false facers and actors

I could say I love poe for his darknesss and his grit

yet I dont speak for any but those who play with their souls

sacrificing every night to think of the next note to decipher

in a day of bass drops and hooks who decides

what music is but I

you see to me poetry has become nothing but a formulaic set of lines

everyone looks to rhyme 

acting as each time

something divine

something benign 

some greater power in which we find

will lead us to become something more

I prefer the free verse

the thoughts in the works

or perhaps a song without a word

as long as emotions are heard

I see all the same formulaic creations

I find it degrading

poetry should be more then what theyre making

it has rhythm

its mean

its loving

its for your queen

its in distress

its the best

its a mess

yet when people say what is correct

poetry becomes a meaningless set of rules

binded by fools


deciding creative writing is a taught muse

Im disgusted by the thought

poetry can be taught

I feel its learned

yet on your own

a word youve spoke

your own poem

all this contention

whenever I mention 

that the best things

are those who in silence sing

the violin speaks to the heart

the piano to the mind 

ive loved guitar from the start

yet drums are the soul of mine

I believe that we don't love poets

not for them at least

we love those words for what they are

something you imagine

We love the artists

we love their tapestries

woven notes

spoken hopes

revealed loves



hoping we dont shrivel up and blow

what else can we do but go

go into descension from the say or mention

that I do not love poetry

I just accept it

its a part of me

I vent it

a frustration ive withheld

poetry is to my discretion

It leads me to personal heaven 

yet in it their is no planning

only tuning and sending

sounds transmitted 

vibrations every second 

the beauty of string

the white noise from their mention

I care not for any person

no poet speaks to me

only rhythms

only those who sing

the epics

the stories

I want depth to what I hear

I dont want tired rhyme schemes

This poem is about: 
Our world


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