Writing

Music is simply the intentional application of rhythm and melody. Because music has to be intentional, sounds such as a train running down a track, or a tree branch tapping on a window are not musical, at least not until someone uses the sound specifically as a rhythm. This means music is purpose driven and exists only as an intent.
 

Here is another poem submitted anonymously by my friend. If you thought My Old Vineyard was metaphysical, think again. (Read the poem by looking at the full view.)

Here is an anonymously submitted poem. Rather long, very metaphysical, one of my favorites from this young writer. (Read the poem by looking at the full view.)

Run with me
Hand in hand
And leave our troubles
In the sand
For the ocean to wash away.

Let me set the scenery so you are able to see through all of this pre-constructed greed and bargain they call infamy. The binnacle is still unable to decide if you're worthy of the time it takes to explain however we're quite certain with this bottomry you've conducted that we're headed south. The hall is covered with fancy fancies circling pirouettes and the men are talking amongst themselves about strictly business, occasionally a disagreement with the Mrs. However tonight is extraordinary, the king and the thief are one in the same. The criminals would say it was most stunning. Even they've got class. Many acts in this place are near perfect but honestly we're closer to Hell. It's a goal to feel important but it's another to achieve the unachievable especially now that I'm finished with introductions...

This is a short writing of mine that I made back in March. I was kind of frustrated with people in general, and some specific people as well. I'm kind of a shy person and I'll hide within myself sometimes, but I refuse to hide behind society or social contracts; that's what this is about...

I want to write.
I want the words to flow out.
But maybe I don't want you to figure me out.
Don't you wish you could go back in time,
something as simple as pressing rewind.
Erase all the places you visited and the people you met.
The butterfly effect. No recollection of any of this.
It appears you've lost me and hate who you've become.
Your mind has never been so weak yet your heart beats strong.
I am a witness and a victim to my own crime.
They say living well is the best revenge, I digress.