Pian

Pian

The scars on my  wrists are reminders.

The fresh cuts sting and burn, The red of my blood brings me release of pain that I feel inside. The pain of the sharp and the sight of the blood, it reminds me that I’m alive. But now it just there, there is no pain just numb.

Pain

I’m not scared of death.

No on the contrary I invite it with open arms.

No I’m scared of living. The thought of life is what chills me to the bone. That feeling that I don’t live up to society's standards. That I’ll be treated diffrently if I don’t fit the description of a cis girl.

Pain

It comes in the form of a dress, of long hair, of makeup, of *******.

It does not come in the form of a broken limb or a gun wound.

It is not a physical pain. Though it can be more inhabilitating than a broken leg. You no longer have the strength or will to get out of bed. Or even live anymore.

Pain

It comes from those who do not understand

It comes from words spoken about you but not to you. It comes from betrail of the highest form. That of a friend, of a lover, of family. They talk. Thats what gives you the power to take those pills. To bury the knife so deep in your wrist they can’t take it out. To put that rope necklace on and push away the only thing holding you up.

Pain

It is the friends you push away that can’t help you

It’s the feeling of pure depression. It’s not a sickness that you can see. You don’t cough, you don’t have a sniffly nose, you aren’t pale, you don’t have a fever of 127. You are so tierd becuause if you sleep you dream but can’t call it dreaming. It’s only nighmares.

Pain

It’s not what you think it is.

It’s like a friend who never leaves. Deppression lives with you and you can’t escape it. It slowly invades your sleep and every waking second.

Pain

For me my deppression is my body

My skinny waist, big hips, and *******. From my round face to my girly voice. My shortness and my slender hands and tiny feet. My deppression is my Dysphoria. She huants me when I look in the mirror. I see it in the faces of my friends. So I push them away.

Pain

It’s feeling so loney that it feels as tough you can’t go on any more

It’s pushing away your friends when you need them the most becuse you don’t wan to hurt them if you do leave. And you consider making life better for everyone including yourself by ending it all. Those pills, that blade, the knife, or the necklace of rope makes you feel free.

Pain



No more PAIN

No more PAIN

NO MORE PAIN



PAIN

there is a seperation

a pain of seperation

such as a seperation

that only lovers specialise in

where the prevention of thought

is like a fortress overrun

where trampling terrains of concern

stampede upon the praire of the mind

transforming it into a soft savanna

of wating engagements

that murmer with comforing enchantments

lays upon such pain of seperation

as that of a perforated scar

seared across the heart

bringing tickles of soft warm tears

to the cheeks

the happist time becomes

a chasm only conquerd

by that gulping unification

of embrace

where soft burning lips

meet in that unknown

but express language

of clasped reunion

it is that pain, that awful pain

that only lovers know

MUSICA ANTIQUA

I - Time Keeper

Prize of a difficult hunt
fresh meat seared in the fire pit:

The ****-clothed victor
severed pieces with his flint
to feed his mate and son
then idly stroked a hollow log
with his crimson tinted club.

He picked up the pace
when the child began
to laugh and whirl
about the flames -
his mother' contented smile
telling, that for a spell at least,
serenity ruled the glade.

II - Found Flutes

In a time too early for telling.
one of our kind unearthed
a dry hollow bone and blew.

Its tones were pleasing
but many more could be found
by scoring several holes in its side.

Though carbon dating may tell
to a millennium or so, when,
no one can ever say why.

III - To Build a Lyre

A Grecian soldier on a cyprus stump
cut holes in a bow too lax for arrows
and gently swept his weathered fingers
across the new strung cords
then composed a lyric to Pan's amors
and a second to brave Alexander.

The soldier, well pleased
resolved to fashion a nobler frame
for his dulcet strings
and raised worthy songs
to Apollo and Terpsichore.

MUSICA MODERNA

IV – The Music Press

In his modest shop in Venice
Ottaviano Petrucci turned the wheel
and pressed notes to paper
for music's first edition.

Squares and diamonds peppered the staves
and tunes of Obrecht and Josquin des Prez
soon graced the salons
of Europe‘s most elegant palaces.

V - Sonata Pian e Forte

From a desk at St. Mark’s in Venice
Gabrieli pondered a question,
“How can an echo’s diminishing sound
be shown in a music score
so that one group of brass
can reflect the other
across the cathedral's nave? '

With two simple words he shifted forever
the course of music’s stream.
For the leaders he marked down “forte, ”
and their its echo marked down, “pian.”

VI - The Master of Cremona

Stradivarius extracted a maple sheet
From his curing vat in Cremona
and hung it to dry with the others -

Then taking his carving knives
He sculpted a cello's scroll
while a golden sheened violin
awaited his finishing cloth.

His secrets expired
when his time was fulfilled
but his magic sings on forever.

VII - Theodore Boehm, designer - flutist*

A gifted precious metal smith
desiring a more supple flute
applied all his art and skill
to its maze of rods and keys.

Each trial was scored
by his ears and fingers
until the door was unlatched.
to euphonious efficiency.
Clarinetists then coaxed him
to fashion their keys as well.

So behind every dixie licorice stick
or Debussy’s pastel faun
stands a persistent man
with a silver flute and
a jeweler's patient hands.

December, 2007