Listen to the bow on violin strings; it slides against words no one would sing.
Hear the silent cries tangled in the string notes—
as wounds melt into the whips of the belt.
Feel as the music fades; the bow is the lake of tears, not the colours of the wind, as every string of veins masquerades to the song that is on repeat.
Taste the mellow tones as it forms clouds of somber rain, full of liquid, upside down and not spilling a drop— until it stains the Beauty and the Beast of pain.
Smell the rosin, the dusty pine, the body of wood, the forest amidst the reminisce springs of the brightest days and the darkest nights—
as hands intertwine and the moon shines.
Touch the pulse of the instrument as it ebbs and flows, calluses on the fingers, and vibrates the hymn of wistful mornings that they don't know.
Yet, it is not seen as they use their hands to play the imaginary violin of mocking despair.
Oh, to be the ghost of the violin as the bow on fiddle strings slides against melodies that no one would sing.
— Violin Despair
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YOU ARE READING
the words I kept
Poetry"𝓦𝓸𝓻𝓭𝓼, 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓶𝔂 𝓼𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓽𝓾𝓪𝓻𝔂 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓶𝔂 𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓾𝓲𝓼𝓱..." these are the feelings I carried with me, thoughts I held back, scars I hid, and all the words I kept; my friend and my foe. Warning: some may be triggering, dis...
