Notes
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And I see her everywhere
Vanishing in the thin blue air
A sealed letter in her hand
Postmarked from a foreign land
Her uniform and face are blue
a melody strung
upon a page,
many don't understand.
what they see
strange symbols
latin words
All who attempt to
Behold the wondrous works
Of the ancient wielders of pathos
Are to wait until eternal rest comes upon them
There are both black and white notes,
And there is always another chord,
But I don't want to lose what we wrote.
I'm pushing the pedal down,
Praying to hold our sound.
Though,
I know it will fade away.
That boy was only 17
Lyrics coming out from his eyes
Those hands
Those eyes
His guitar, my ukulele
Music speaks to me when you don't
Headphones soup bowls bigger than my heart's holes
Hip hop a blessing an escape from the problem I'm not addressing
shouting aggression yet soothing my depression
Notes on a page.
I have become
The inks and papers.
I am the notes the teachers explain,
Copied down in frantic scribbles
Nearly illegible,
Vaguely understood,
Notes pour from meAs my fingers glide along the stringsA smile grows upon my faceAs my guitar begins to singBlocking out the noise of the worldI am one with the musicCreating a harmonious signal
I wish that you would write to me.
Paragraphs or pages of paper
With words of your world for me to see
Parchment with pencil or pen
Scribbled at half past ten or when your're free
There are many ways
That one may learn
Powerpoints, lectures, or reading aloud in turn
But my way of learning
Is not the same as theirs
So stop complaining
When I almost break down in tears
We all stroll in to class.
The bell rings.
"Settle down class."
You take roll.
"Here."
You tell us we're taking notes.
We all sigh in your ear.
Taking notes is a drag.
So you ask, Why Do I Write ?
I write because I trust no one but my self.
I write because what I have to say is closer to the truth than what another says.
I write because its a stress reliever.
I did not grow up with poetry.I grew up with music.Yet, to me, the former is no different from the latter.
Toes waving in the pool of words beneath me.
Notes are harsh and scores, unfeeling.
They suggest that music's only
noise, or simply ink on paper.
But it's more than beats and pitches,
Ring, Ring.
They shine, they sing.
One, Two,
Three, Four.
The notes they move
up and down
like a roller coaster.
Ring, Ring.
They shine, they sing.
One, Two,
Three, Four.
The notes they move
up and down
like a roller coaster.
1. someday you’ll ask why your daddy and i are different colours —
not because you ever noticed, but because someone else did.
i’ll have to explain to you that the electromagnetic spectrum
The mouth of the saxophone
is the belly of the player
the bones of the player
the veins of the player
the feet feeling the earth
revert the vibrations
like an oscillator
you should see the waves
