On the floor music blasting in my ears.
The music echoing in my aching chest.
Every anxious thought striking me with fear.
Leaving me cloudy and depressed.

The artists music reflecting their pain.
That makes me feel like they are with me.
Like being dry in the rain.

I’ve got
seven songs
on repeat.

They don’t ask me to talk.
They don’t tell me to cheer up.
They just play,
quietly,
loudly,
however I need them.

Vestige
whispers
like a ghost I once knew,
soft, aching—
it holds my breath in its careful hands
and never asks
why I’m fading.

Caramel drips down
slow and sweet,
like it knows my ribs
are tired of holding it all in.
It doesn’t try to fix me—
it just sits,
a quiet sadness
that understands.

When The Sun Sleeps
doesn’t sleep at all—
it screams,
loud, raw, honest.
It bleeds the things I buried
and somehow,
that noise feels more like home
than silence ever did.

Overflow crashes like a wave
right when I thought I was dry.
It drowns me—
but gently,
like rage that remembers
I’m still human.

To The Flowers
sounds like falling apart
and finally letting go.
It’s heavy,
but blooms in the dark,
grief growing
into something real.

Nero Forte fights for me
when I’m too tired to fight myself.
It’s chaos—pure,
relentless—
a storm I can scream into
and still
walk out of.

When It Rains
makes me feel fifteen and fragile,
but soft enough
to remind me
I’m not wrong
for feeling everything
too much.

These seven songs don’t save me.
They don’t have to.
They just stay—
and some nights,
that’s the only thing
that keeps me here.

Every thing made,
Not from human-kind
As if humans knew
Kindness, From this earth
Has a song each its own.

The melodies of every stone
Of every branch, from every
Droplet of a wave,
The Wave itself
Lends a message that is held
Together by the sun.

The lyrics cast light
On every shadow
Drawing maps of age
And wisdom along a line of Ink
So fine that it remains hidden
Behind what it means to be alive.

Every thing is a seed
With its own song
Rooting up for no reason
Heavy, even as the weight
Of a raindrop tries to be measured
In its sheer amount, the music will
Outlast this and every season
Beyond this
the orchestra of time.

Im filled with emotions,
I can no longer speak.
It’s like I’m locked in my own prison,
Emotions struggling to be released.

Within me i am drowning,
But I don my happy face.
An internal war roaring,
Struggling to keep it locked in the safe.

I can not allow myself to loosen yet,
Rarely am I allowed to.
Through the day i make it through,
It’s my happy mask that talks to you.

I wish I can let the feelings out,
As they trickle in.
All day the inside prisoners shout,
Grasping and clawing at my skin.

From time to time, late at night,
Raw words from a song will pierce the wall.
The feelings are flicked on like a light,
surrendering myself to the abyss as I fall.

I have a playlist dedicated to us.
It’s called -

All the songs that hold a special place in my heart
But are too dangerous to listen to

Do shadows clash?
With a light's, oracle...?
Should we intone, the sleep of passion?
Still in a night's touch, is love a suspense of, milk?

Miracles that reach for chastity...
Have a naming game in mind, for heed
Peek, poorer for a question's vanity
Of the solace of a wish, for another wish to lead...

We are the silence, the ghost
Of a need's chance, you know
Like a sojourn, with a dread's host
The place of reason, has become a you...

Rage, rationalize this...
Quiet of subtle time, forms
A vivid accusation, has become a lover's kiss
Ready to keep it all, in the hand of norms

Breath of worth, later
The might of wishes will become a lover's fate
Now in the presence and prayers, of honor sated
By the shy sight of ingenue, will we know the blessing of a wishes privacy?

in better times, I remember I
began getting quite arrested, like
a ****** susp., by
Harmonía, which keeps serving
to this day as a source of both psychic sunlight
and real enjoyment (sometimes)
which is somewhat funny co[ɑ]mbined
with the fact it was a summer month I
started getting more in—volved in thI̲s diversion
summer twenty fourteen
which means she's something I have bE̲E̲n exploring
for... um... already more than
a decade, like rotten souls of autocratic rogues
["decayed"]
but it's a mite bigger story
given the fA̲ct I'd known
and been sort of into her some years before then
she can be so diverse, from natural
to artificial & including parts of both
plenty of heartbeat types & tempos
and vibes: from nice & mellow
to harsh & evil, from bright to dismal
from refined & regal to energized & feral
she can pep up automotive-buzz-replete strolls
she's there for you in times you feel low
and any kind of insult is something she won't
ever do, unlike a lo[ɑ]t of people; I can hardly be called
jolly, like a harlequin lo[ɑ]cked within walls
of a go[ɑ]ddamn mental
["Harley Quinn"; "Gotham"]
asylum, but, like an environment fa[ɛ]natic
in a paradisiacal la[ɛ]nd replete
with scenes of natural grace, I'm pleased
["blissed"]
that I̲ had a cha[ɛ]nce to be
introduced to her; and all the gO̲O̲d 'bout her
cited through the verse is why I'm glued to her
not a single day of mine is thrO̲U̲gh sans her
but if you think I'm alluding to[—]wards
a close other, you have sure
misunderstood the verse (some of it)
[Unlike Pluto has a tune being, as it's stated by him, "a love song as a metaphor for alcoholism"]
[it's called "Ethel", which is a homophone for "ethyl"]
————————————————————————————————
for I'm not one with a people-oriented frame
of mind, but a music nerd
with a broad extent of taste
for music, but one whO̲ prefers
mostly middle-paced
and boomy forms
of it, such as midtempo bass
midtechno, EDM glitch hop, moombahcore
drift phonk "*******", like a *****'s brain
moombahton, & 2000s reggaeton
but some years ago, when old & new reports
of injustices of the human world
next to the discontent of daily adult-hood were serv—
—ing as ****** fuel in terms
of the ignition of the stupid urge
to get something (boo!) destroyed
to bring against injustice-contributing jerks retribution earned
a craze for more dark-sounding, brutal sorts
of tunes was formed as a substitution for
destruction, like any amusement's purp.
["distraction"; "purpose"]
along with music, another gO̲O̲d means for
getting through the murk
has been, like when a whip's coming thrO̲U̲gh keen curves
sideways with its wheels sliding through the course
of it, creative writing, putting words (mislead)
["creative riding"; "ᵖᵤᵗᵢⁿ words"]
into this seductive-looking form (indeed)
————————————————————————————————
and I really was thinking after the last done work
(that killing joke tale)
that I won't manage to craft one more (usual thoughts)
took 'round three & a half months burned (for the most part)
and the thought of o[ɑ]bligation to wha[ʌ]t's been saving
me from ending up in a darker place in
order to undertake an—other rhyme creation
hopefully, like that racing co[ɑ]ntest on Terminal
Island, I'll have some more to show
that's something I am not sure of, though
["mortal show"; the "Death Race" show from the same-titled movie]

A thing is a thing, isn’t a thing
What makes a thing, a thing?
Is a thing, a thing because
We call it
A thing?

What then of things that
Haven’t found a name?
Does discovery make
A thing?
Then who made us
A thing
Can a thing
Make a thing a thing?

Light is a thing
I see it
Fragrance is a thing
I smell it
Music is a thing
I hear it

Dark is a thing
No thing
Is not having a thing make
A thing?
is a no thing, a thing?

Is
Love
A thing?