Me and The Music Rack

Hey lovely people! I once watched a spoken word poetry video in which the poet said that sometimes as he wrote/spoke he felt like a stripper; speaking to people he never met before about intimate things in his life. I definitely feel like I'm stripping with this one. I'm not one to write about myself. But something happened of recent that led to this.



If you rolled my heart out and laid it on a music rack, you would play the symphony of an old love song.
An embroidery of hidden faces and swallowed words.
It would be one of those songs that melt your heart. 

If you rolled out my heart and laid it on a music rack, you would find your voice as you played.
Hear the vivid drums of glistening eyes and thrown back heads.
It would be one of those moments you just want to scream. 

If you rolled out my heart and laid on a music rack, it would speak words of confusion.
Heartbreaks and hushed voices.
Tired minds and empty stories.
Heavy heads and avoided memories.
Deleted songs and regretted pictures. 

If you rolled out my heart and laid it on a music rack. The lyrics of my soul would change you.
You would look at life through the curtains of wonder and a new kind of fear, or is it love?
You would see yourself and would not recognize your features. 

If you rolled out my heart and laid it on a music rack. You would rebuke the words that you speak.
Lash out and recoil.
Run and pray and run again.

Slinky.

Hey guys! Hope everyone is having a great week so far. I was quite bored recently and wrote this very short story.

The colour of her skin was a mix of grey and pain. Her eyes held liquid fear, or was it anger? She walked with a tired feline gait, as though wasted hope lay heavily on her hips. She was the palace slave but a divine dancer. She would dance at royal ceremonies, waist adorned with the finest of beads, shoulders hidden in high and heavy ornaments. Her dance steps were slow and beckoning. How could an essence so strange carry such elegance on its shoulders? The stride of her hips, the expression on her face, spoke words she could never utter. The stamp of her feet against the rain-bathed soil left prints feet manipulation. The smile on her face carried men on an unsatisfying journey. And once in a while, as she moved towards the crowd, a frenzy of vibrations taking over her hips and shoulders, pride would flash on her face.  She was well aware of the empire she had created in our minds. This empire where the slave transformed to the dictator.