Before - Legends Gate-way to Infinity (poetry?some angst)

Title: On the Edge of Silence
Topic: statements from the viewpoint of people who live in a society lacking general appreciation
Disclaimer: OC, but Lucas and Watson's characters may be mentioned
Notes: this is not exactly spell-binding events, it's confessions from a different point of view.

Why?
If a musician has nothing but music, would he (or she) have a soul?
If a musician has music but a galaxy doesn't, what now?
Does the galaxy possess a psyche?
Never mind.

If the world has no music, than what's the point of musicians?
The kind that doesn't flirt with business and stakes and pubs.
What of the ones who don't make sounds?
The ones who make music out of vibrations that anyone could make?
What of the ones that are different?

The same fate as the others, only far worse.

These people can fail all they want.
With little more than rebuke.
With so little praise that the slightest compliment is joy beyond joy.
Some have failed their fill of failure.
Failure might even stop hurting.

Music.
A complication of the most regular background noise.
An art evolved from an angry bartender's wails.
A way to feel something in way so extremely available.
It's possible.

But in a world of no music, there is no music.
That is known.
There are sounds and entertainment.
Danger and cash.
If the world would only expand.

Beyond fake wind.
Beyond all that technology may be a realm of art.
But not for those who can't reach it.
Even though the world isn't deaf.

They aren't deaf.
But they won't listen.
Some do.
But only some.
Some and no more.

They aren't deaf.
But few will listen.
So let them laugh at the silence.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
OK, that was 'angsty-er' than I've ever gotten.

 

That was very thought provoking and well done.

 

Thank you Vader!

 

To scream.
Or to whisper.
To sing.
Or to retch.
Volume.
Or format.
No matter.

To leave.
Or to stay.
To accept.
Or to refuse.
Presence.
Or possession.
No matter.

But what if no one knew?
What if the reality were true?

Is it possible?
Is it possible for sound to be a person's life?
What if it is so?
As possible as a volcano.

It is.
And sometimes for the deaf.

It is.

 

What is music?
Is its definition its meaning?
Why does it vary?

Why do different aspects or forms of it have more of an audience?
And others none at all.

Why?
Why must music be like a die?
Each side of it is different.
Some are good.
And some are bad.
And yet there is a bridge between it all.

Why is some music detested?
Why are so many so strict?

What's the point then?

Why do they ignore it?
Why?
Is it that they judge a story without examing it?
Or what?

Why?

Why is music strictly sound?
It isn't.
Deem it something else.

Regard it a dream.
Music is the voice behind the dream.
That seldom speaks.

 

There is little.
Not nothing.
But certainly little.

There is little in this galaxy.
Or the infinite universe.
That parallels this.

Little parallels the uncertainty and query.
The exasperation and the dissappointment.
The vague fury and grief.
Of being dismissed.
Before existing.

 

I need to visit Before more often, if this is the awesomeness I'm missing...

Is it possible for sound to be a person's life?
What if it is so?
As possible as a volcano.

As possible as the stars, even. Well said.


Good poem. Is there more?

 

Thank you!
Of course there is more.
Do you think this should be labeled 'drabbles'?

Update later today.

 

Alone.
Silent.

With music existing.
For the silence.
Against the silence.
With the silence.
As the silence.

No one could listen to the silence.
Unless they can hear it.

It's a hidden spark.
In the bright light.

Not alone.
But still silent.

 

Never mind.

Never mind being ignored.
Never mind inexistance.
Never mind being trapped inside it.

Never mind being in darkness until becoming half-blind.
Then seeing shots of light that pierce so jovially.

Never mind anything.

Inexistance cannot be minded.
Right?

Never mind.

 

Never having flown.
It doesn't mean never flying.
But there's a pretty good chance of it.
Right?

They've never listened.
It doesn't mean they never will listen.
But there's a pretty good chance of it.
Right?

They rarely saw.
But hey have seen.
And heard.
And hope they felt it in the glimpses.

But they never felt it.
It doesn't they'll never feel it.
But there's a pretty good chance of it.
Right?

 

That depends... are they a hundred words at a time? Sometimes, what you want to say can't be limited to a hundred words. If it's not a hundred words at a time, then no on the drabble lable.

They rarely saw.
They have seen.
And heard.
And hope they felt in the glimpes.

Ooh! Pretty... glimpsed what?

 

Thank you!

Post coming up later today.
Would you like a PM for updates?

tapping fish
Macaroni and cheese rules

 

To fail is to fail.
A mistake can be a failure.
Blemishes.
Imperfections.
Flaws after flaws and more flaws.

One after another.
A restless chain.
Indelible.
And soon historical.
But no matter.
It's a blemish.
Flaws after flaws and more flaws.

 

A single destiny.
A single future.
A single comrade.
And a single rival.

The fear.
Of time passing continuously.
And everything dwindling.

While all they see is emptiness.
Where it is filled.
All they hear is silence.
Where there is infinite, unresolved music.
Forever.

 

Nothing is right.
Or better known as evrything is wrong.
But unlike misbehavior.
Because there's no way to tell what is wrong.

Only there is a way.
Because everything is wrong.
And nothing is right.

It is a vortex.
With little more.
Or less.
Than infinite uncertainty.
That warps eternity into its soul.

 

As I tend to forget to check for updates, yes on the PM updates.

Nothing is right.
Or better known as everything is wrong.
But unlike misbehavior.
Because there's no way to tell what is wrong.


Not on the surface, no... and I so want to add something here, as I got knocked into poem mode just now. (by you, actually)


nothing
on the surface
no one sees
no one hears

nothing is seen
but all is there

nothing is heard
but it is there

unseen
but there
unheard
and noiseless

the ripples echo
and will not
be stopped...


Was that what you had in mind? Good job, Juicey.

 

You're psychic! And that poem was really good (surpasses a couple of my own).

Yippee! I've inspired someone! A psychic someone.

Thanks for your support and compliments! Thank you.

Update coming soon!

 

Darkness.
It's never black.
It's music.

Light.
It's dimensionless.
It's music.

Silence.
It's almost everywhere.
It's music.

Time.
It's passing no matter what.
It's music.

Emotion.
It's what it is.
It's music.

And to pause for an infinite instant.
Drawing out each resonance.
Then fading somewhere into the distance.
Somewhere far away.
Never to return.

 

*sits silently, blinking* That. Was. Awesome. I am stunned by the immense brilliance. Whoa.

 

Thank you so much!

~~

Empty.
So dark.
So dark that hues were scant.
Golden feasting and fresh life somewhere in the distance.
Shards of peach and bronze illuminating the silhouettes.
And blue.
Dark blue.
Diminishing the light at its frail edge and core.

It has a sovereign.
It is silent.
And it's getting hard to see.

It's hard to see in dark.
It's hard to see in the silence.
It's hard.

It's why we need light.

 

Music is so beautiful.
It reigns where it should.
And doesn't where it doesn't.

Each melody requires no system.
Just everything sweet.
Dark.
Melodious.
Simply spilling like toppled water.
Or a waterfall.

It would have been always beautiful.
And it is.
Music is real music.
So why is some music noise?

 

Because some music doesn't make sense to one's ears?

Still being wowed... though that's the first time I've been called psychic...


Good poems.

 

If it doesnt make sense.
Is it a mess?
A noise?
Yes or no.

A hallucination?
Maybe.
Sometimes.
If you're lucky.
Or unlucky.
No matter.

Nevermind.

Shoo it from your brain.

Shoo it from everything beyond right here.
A place.
With a given name and a chosen name.
At random.

 

When the world is ought to revolve one way, everything denies it.
The waves clash with the rebellious winds.
In the wrong direction.
The sun hesitates but the moon does not.
It couldn't.

While in the midst of this forever mutiny and chaos.
A still, slmost irrelevant presence seeps its way through everything.
Splintering with the waves and lamenting a gales' arrival.
Whistling along breezes and trilling rhythmically in sensible reaction to the rain.
But it has to be found.

Because you don't create music out of nothing.
You find it in everything.
Flanked by nothing.