No Encore For This Hurting Artist

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
A poem about music and the world where we live.

Submitted: April 24, 2011

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Submitted: April 24, 2011

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No Encore
 
 
 
They say violent delights have violent ends, and in their triumph die.
Like fire and powder, which as they kiss…consume
I’m not your typical teen.
I have deeper thoughts then one can possibly imagine
And half the time I drown in them.
Between gasps of air on their surface I feed myself lies of the world
I pretend to be another fish in the sea,
Escaping an oil spill, but where am I safe?
I constantly judge myself based upon their criteria
And judge the world on mine.
I sit in the ominous silence late at night
Beside a tree full of memories and pretend to learn what it was like before
Time was counted on someone’s wrist.
I can not fathom the idea of being without my galaxy,
Without the vastness of the mere image,
Imprinted on my brain…
It sends shivers up the back of the neck,
I tremble when I breathe in love, breath out lyrics
Wisdom escapes from the strings of my guitar…
I watch the moon
It guides my melodies to the ears of the animals, the beasts, the insects…
Crickets, wind, rain, screen doors, and gunshots join the masterpiece
And perform a lullaby for the sleeping city
The most inspiring piece you have never heard
People have the ability to hear it
But most of us never listen.
If it doesn’t contain the words black and yellow
Apparently it’s not worth listening too.
But if you took a moment to grasp the idea
Maybe you could see the world for what it could be.
What we could be…
As the night goes on the musicians of my symphony drift off into the night
Searching for what makes them perfectly content
And I am left alone.
No encore for this hurting artist.
 
 
James Brock-Sturtevant
April 24, 2011


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