Silent Lies


The lies we told each other with fake faces
The promises we made to break are now breaking me 
As the silence speaks volumes and the words aren’t heard
We said forever but we didn’t even begin 
Doomed before we could become we are now broken
Veiled dreams torn and guttered, strewn apart in my dreams
We could have been but our strings once unraveled refused
Once we beat in harmony like a two person band 
But now the music is only the aching of my heart 
Straining against the constraints of my skin 
Searching for you but you are not listening 
You are not listening


Headphones (resubmit)


The hands fly across the keyboard.

Or at least in his mind they fly,

In reality they stumble and lurch across

Like drunken bees trying to tap dance

As he tries to conjure something beautiful

As the beauty of art drums in his ears

In the form of a small device producing

The lives and struggles of others into his ears.

The beauty escapes him but he struggles on

His head rocking in tune to the beyond

That can not be captured in words

Alone in a room full of people as the smells

And sights meld into one harmonious whole

That echoes in the eerie silence of the music

As it engulfs his senses and he just wants

To ride it like a wave but the rocks of social

Protocol, the foundations of society are there

To prevent him from cutting loose and just moving

To the talent that whispers in his ear

And the seductive thrum of instruments as they

Match with the wavelength of his thoughts and

The music continues to play and the words fade

But the music remains and now he is being

Swept away and his fingers speed up

And the words escape from his silent mouth

That doesn’t move but transfers the information

To his fingers which start to do their elegant

Dance on the dance floor of the keyboard

The drunken bees now trained ballerinas

As they leap and flourish and the psyche transcending

Beauty that pours from the expression of

Self and others and all that is wrapped up

In the aloneness and the rapture of the

Heady orgasmic quality of the trance that

Is similar to the high achieved by drugs but simple

And clean and hard to put to words though a

Thousand and a thousand more monkey beat

On the typewriter of life and produce works

That  echo, surpass and elevate that of Shakespeare

But still that drumbeat of life that is captured by

The music that we play and listen

Runs and thrums in our bones and calms our souls

But can not be captured by our mind.

He returns and the trance ends and his fingers

Slow and his words start to trickle to a stop

And his moment ends and returns to life