Free Verse
Nourish the Mind in Peace and Love
Nourish the Mind in Peace and Love Nourish the mind with thoughts that bloom like morning dew, Allowing hope to gently grow in everything you do. The seeds we plant within ourselves determine what will rise, Whether gardens filled with joy or sorrow in disguise.
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk 3 months ago in Poets
what reading Murakami feels like
the story begins (stop me if you’ve heard this one) with a run-of-the-mill man with a run-of-the-mill job in a run-of-the-mill apartment in japan. living an orderly if lonely existence, pasta and endless beer, a book, classical records. interspersed with occasional encounters with women with curiously placed moles on their bodies, always petite and slender and inwardly intense, a little plain on the outside. everything is plain on the outside. his life is like a snapshot, a hole punctured in the great anatomy of time, around it hissing static. the man gradually becomes aware of the static, can feel its buzz creeping into dreams like inside-out nightmares. he cannot make sense of it. he cannot make sense of anything, just lets himself be pulled along like a person stunned by the smell of the earth after rain, shocked at waking into the absurdity of existence. he quits his job, or no longer comes in, and they fire him. he does not seem to care (I cannot stress enough how he does not seem to care. I cannot ever tell if this is depression or the deepest sense of peace, but my mind always settles on both somehow, and that seems right and relatable in a way that makes my soul thrum.) despite being unemployed now, the man is somehow surviving. whatever boring thing he did gives him an enviable cushion of savings, or he has a mostly-absent partner who works or money is meaningless and he's slipped into the void, the feel of it delicious like the skin coming off a wounded limb all in one piece. he has almost no needs and certainly no wants but to find that sourceless hissing at the corners of his mind like a radio set between stations, the blurring at the corners of the world and his eyes, like every time he looks to the side, someone has just moved out of frame. a past lover. a deceased friend. god, or his benevolent absence. things happen to him, and he lets them, riding the wave of some mysterious frequency. days are spent alone, wandering. he follows a cat into a neighbor's overgrown yard, or a set of stairs to a series of empty offices with strange signs on the doors. days lose their names. the static has moved inside. they are not so separate now, where it ends and he begins. occasionally, he meets a talking animal or a fold in time, and steps over it like a wrinkle in a carpet. or- his foot catches and he falls out into that great hissing buzz, the static really just a vast blackness, scattershot with rippling stars.
By Raistlin Allen3 months ago in Poets
Perdendosi
The house lights come up No curtain call each Maestro and Maestra Lets their baton fall The halls lay empty The balconies stilled “The clarinet is useless!” “It won’t pay the bills!” Horde by horde The choruses chant No rhythm, no rhyme An ignorant lament They sing their verses In boardrooms and bailiwicks Aeolian scales Corrupted, sycophantic One by one The students depart Until the second chair’s Bereft a beating heart The house lights come up The curtain falls But no soul attends This evenings ball Concert halls closed The microphone falls Leaving naught but static’s Lonely echoed call
By Matthew J. Fromm3 months ago in Poets
