The Natural Resound- Born Ear to Sound

  What I have But this woe in me When called to write It’s poetry I never write What I see For what calms and moves Is melody But a distant star Oh so far Over strange lands I travel far And the things I capture Are not what I see For that is a trade Of photography If what I taste Was not preserved For decades upon decades Upon scholarly word I would know far less Than what I state For with my words I alone can’t make A sound to the eye Would any try That doesn’t move It’s a tempest lie A distant sound From another’s lips You know they like it When they move their hips A calm or mood In spoken text When it’s learned with the ears You must confess I would do some justice With poetry For what taste and touch Can never see In what I write I never see For what world exists In melody?

My cup has been filled Soon to be tilt Then blood will be spilt Over a cup that's been spilt Because it was tilt Yes, it was once filled Now a rigid red stain On this fine wood grain Mother will go insane Yes, mother will go insane And blood will be spilt All upon mothers quilt Because wine was spilt From the cup that was tilt It was overly filled To be spilt When motioned to tilt Peter steps in He stops at the door Hangs up his coat The pocket has been torn The keys are falling On to the floor From the hole in the pocket Of the coat at the door Now as the keys fall The air is displaced The new man reads The look on her face Mother is knowing This is her place Nothing surprises You can tell by her face

It’s been several months since my last post, so I thought to leave some filler.  I have been playing Dota, and no, I won’t be going pro.  The book writing is still very real and my first full novel is nearing the end of the wrap up for the revisions, and I am soon to ready it for publication.  Aside from that, look forward to a book someday!  

That it had been an unspoken tradition, that decade after decade, generation after generation, that a calling of youth would take to emerge from the shambles and dusty cellars of our cities, to assimilate themselves in debauchery and rebel from their parents.  Almost like a ceremonial dance of passing, they would take following with the devil's music.  Young adults and teenagers from urban, rural, and suburban areas, like maturing mammals, find themselves in a reassessment of their conscience.  They are beckoned by heed, hypnotized though alluring melodies, feeling compelled to new math and relishing in a medium that preserves their stories.  To them a calling and sure sign of their salvation.  Their individuality.  Did I say it yet?  Their Rebellion!  But from what again?  I mentioned who they were, and I also stated that music was the vessel and the embodiment of their spirit.  Yes, music.  From it, they could recharge.  Rege...