it's the feeling of familiarity when the aux chord, tired and worn, screams patterns and tunes that are already etched in your heart anyway
it's the feeling of setting your voice free - being unafraid to open up and let the sound roar among these lonely walls
with every strum and every riff the hairs rise on the back of my neck like the dejavu of meeting a friend long gone
and you stand at their grave wishing for them to come back and trying to summon their spirit with the childhood songs you used to sing at the back of their old dusted chevy -
but ending up with just a solitary tune wandering amongst the headstones and trying to find its way back to the voice that owned it
it's the selfishness, the obscene self-pity, when your heart craves for the idea it held so dear, clinging on to whatever shred of memory that's left, so much so that you'd be willing to sacrifice anything to get those little rivulets of time back
it's the gratifying pain of listening to what you know has made your heart constrict in bars of agony - and you know it will keep doing that but you listen to it anyway just to reacquaint with the old sting - because the old sting is the only thing you have left to keep you remembering
it's satisfying, in a way, to keep hurting and scarring yourself over and over and over again for the flood of memories you know it will trigger - there's something so beautiful about reliving memories with the violence fresh again
you know how it feels like to just stare into someone's eyes for a single sign that they remember, that they love? how it feels like to try to write poetry out of the way someone's mouth curls up in a little half-smile as if saying "i know, and i won't forget"?
yeah, that's what it feels like.
because despite the pain and the chains and the emptiness the world may force into my heart
i know there's at least one thing that i can count on: the chords, the way a voice danced and screamed and whispered and sang and
told me i wasn't alone
tells me i'm not alone
it will take me back to nostalgia, and heartbreak, and a bittersweet love
it will take me back to the grit and the dust of the past and bring with it the dated beauty those days held
it will take me all the way back to the start
it will take me
home
YOU ARE READING
poetry oneshots
Poetry"when i cannot see words curling like rings of smoke round me i am in darkness - i am nothing." - virginia woolf, the waves sparks of thought and glimmers of ideas, encapsulated in words. note: some blackout poems are published in here and will be i...
