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Literature Text
I am a pianist
And you are my piano, dear.
I play minuets along your ribcage,
Write love songs on your arms,
And press your vertebrae like keys
To let soft chords fill the empty space.
Your hairs are the resounding strings,
Your lips are polished brass pedals
That make everything loud and soft at the same time.
Kissing you makes the whole world shift up an octave.
I am a pianist
And you are my piano, dear
So let's write a duet in the dark.
And you are my piano, dear.
I play minuets along your ribcage,
Write love songs on your arms,
And press your vertebrae like keys
To let soft chords fill the empty space.
Your hairs are the resounding strings,
Your lips are polished brass pedals
That make everything loud and soft at the same time.
Kissing you makes the whole world shift up an octave.
I am a pianist
And you are my piano, dear
So let's write a duet in the dark.
Literature
The Piano
The voice you hear is not mine. It forms words, but it's not me. I can no more speak than I could fly; not if you begged me, if you tortured me.
Once, a lifetime time ago, I could sing, and I lived for my song. Once she sang with me, and oh, how beautiful we were.
I sing no more.
I don't know where she went; far away, I believe. Perhaps she replaced me with another who sang more beautifully than I ever could. Though she tried, I give her that, she tried to take me with her; brought me all the way down to the sea shore, onto the very sands, but that's as far as I could go; the end of our life together.
Do you think me foolish, allowing my
Literature
Writer's Block
The numbers on my desk calendar started to blend together as my eyes began to close and I dozed off. I regained consciousness with a start, and I involuntarily slammed my hand down to what should have been my desk.
"Wh-where am I?"
"Oh my dear! We certainly weren't expecting you today; we would have cleaned up a bit. Heh, you see, we're having a bit of a well… technical difficulty." Said a round, rather pleasant woman wearing a polka-dot dress with a nametag simply saying "Dot."
I looked around; I was in a large, disorganized office with people and papers scrambling with bundles of copy paper. I grabbed a paper from the desk beside an
Literature
The Cello's Lament
They call me brute.
I'm permitted to chant,
but they won't let me Sing.
They've confused non-agility for
inflexibility—
my belly enfolds the earth;
my throat trills at the stars;
my eyes embrace the cays
of the sea.
I am an omnivore,
yet they will only feed me leaves.
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Argharghargh, I don't even know why I'm posting this because it's really strange. Well, what poems by me aren't strange?
This is from the perspective of a guy talking about his love and comparing her to a piano. He can't really play, but when he's with her he feels like a musician.
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Critique: [link]
Please critique this! Do you think it's too simple, or maybe too short?
This is from the perspective of a guy talking about his love and comparing her to a piano. He can't really play, but when he's with her he feels like a musician.
---------------------------------------
Critique: [link]
Please critique this! Do you think it's too simple, or maybe too short?
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Comments53
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I am speechless, this is absolutely beautiful. You have created such strong imagery, and your word choices are incredible. I am insanely jealous by your skills as a poet. I especially liked this part:
"I play minuets along your ribcage,
Write love songs on your arms,
And press your vertebrae like keys
To let soft chords fill the empty space.
Incredible. Amazing. Beautiful.
"I play minuets along your ribcage,
Write love songs on your arms,
And press your vertebrae like keys
To let soft chords fill the empty space.
Incredible. Amazing. Beautiful.