Dark Piano - The Poet

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[dannydb]

I love how the comment section is always filled with poetry. It's such a nice community.

[andrjuska]

*_THE POET_*

I have been living in this bizarre world,
and, on it, have I found a single place
that keeps me warm in the ice age:
my soul's pillow, my little space.

The room, filled with remnants of the past,
and the paper, completely blank,
they are friends, willing to feel my blood,
with whom I can always be frank.

I feel, I suffer, I cry, I rejoice,
my body senses the world's deepest tears;
the sadness is pounding inside the chest
as we are surviving more menacing years.

And so I shake, I squirm, I bleed,
coughing up things held in for so long:
and so this song was born out of pressure,
for we cannot be forever strong.

My friend, I am only a human being
who cannot help but drown in great care:
this pen, clenched in these sweaty palms,
is my last bubble of fresh air.

Don't take away the only thing I have!
Let the whiteness listen to my noiseless screams!
And, who knows, maybe someone, someday,
will finally be able to hear my dreams.

[jessicafitch]

The night is my companion. It's when I feel the most alive with the quietness of the darkness. 3am is the best time to take a walk in my neighborhood, feeling the energy and listening to the night's wildlife

[slightlymelted]

just thought i'd put a little verse from my fantasy world here

raise your glass,
and say your cheers,
draw your sword,
cry your tears,
for this is the night we fight our fears

[akithfernando]

To those of you who are heading towards the comments. There's some really good poetry down there. So enjoy!

[andreasallesch]

Poetry is a hole.

Either you stay out,
Or you fall into it as a whole.
Some will never know what it is about.

Those who climb down,
Will find only obscurity,
There on the ground,
So they return, back to security.

But those who fall down,
In the darkness so blind
Will find a colourful town,
Within their beautiful mind.

Because there is no way,
Out of the hole,
Back to the light of day,
Out of the bowl.

They start to create,
Their own world down there,
To be entered through a magical gate,
And nobody else will ever know where.

So let me explain,
My poetry as a hole,
For my fantasy to train,
Within my very soul.

- The Poet

[eliasbischoff]

Of course I could not resist.

A drop of blue
On yellowed white.
A mind ascue,
A heart´s delight.

One thousand words
To paint a scene.
One, though it hurts,
Is still so keen.

A racing quill,
The lover´s test.
The pages fill,
The mind finds rest.

A truth to know,
A world to feel,
A light to show,
A life so real.

The muses smile,
In contentment,
As pages fill,
With each attempt,

To bend the rules
Expressions set,
To use the tools,
Never held yet.

He would go on,
pour out his heart,
And still he´s drawn,
To work his art.

But at what time
Come hollow words?
Comes no more rhyme?
Do they form herds?

And so he lays
His quill aside.
An artists way.
A poet´s pride.

[someinternetguy]

A poet is really just a person who uses the miracle of words to describe tragedies, miracles, stories, or people. Just as a musician is really just a person who uses the miracle of sound to string chords that cause people to feel differently, or a painter who shows the world in its true light.
In a world becoming more and more complex, people are losing the time to experience art; just as it is becoming more neccessary than ever

[luciouspateramoris]

Life is a song
Pleasure is the hook
Pain is the chorus
The melody lives in every inch of time and space
We all live in harmony with it
Yet few can read its notes.

[adad]

"you cannot express your feelings but write it down on a piece of paper and what you write turns into a poem a deep dark, lonely poem but your soul is not satisfied its craving for intimacy, closure and someone to heal you".

[silviulungu]

The random ads that starts playing during this masterpiece are a form of crime against art.

[arunkrishnan]

THE POET

The page broken,
Crimson ink flows,
Word by word to the floor,
Shattered at the glassy tile,
The silence broken sullen,
Air of blissful taste,
a painting of bloody dreams
An art of wishful times.

[charliebouler]

"I curse my bitter Stars in Grief and Woe, that made my Love so High and me so Low" ~William Blake

[arpangupta]

You know that a composition is extraordinary, to say the least, when the entire comment section is turned into poets. This comment might or might not have been made by someone else, but the sentiment is still echoed in my mind. This music is just beautiful. Magnificent. I am bewildered by this talent and hard work.

[momom]

Never had I thought there were so many amateur poets hidden among random strangers. Now I may imagine that everyone hides a heart... Maybe we were all just waiting for an opportunity to reveal ourselves to the world ; waiting for a suitable occasion when no one would judge and no one would discard our work, for everyone, for a brief moment maybe, felt the same and had the same inspirations.
And of course I have to share my own writings !

[blazegl]

This is the video where all the poets and writers can show their talent, feelings and emotions through their work.

[d-zerocult]

Sleepless nights and tireless days
Still I write with things to say
To whom it may concern
I’ll never know
By the time you read this
I’ll be six feet below
But before I’m gone
I have to write
My last will and testament
It is my right
So I leave to you all I own
A pen A paper and this poem

- The Poet

[emilynella]

The comments section filled with poetry and the unique piano music unlocked a part of me I didn't know existed. So calming yet so mysterious. The unknown places i walk inside my thoughts and my feelings fear me but not in the bad way.

What is this that I'm feeling?
Something deep in me woke up from a nap that almost felt like an eternity.

Goodbye society I'm going to explore myself without your influence. I don't need you...
...And now with all the calming things that exist I'll go to sleep. The sweetest dream of a non existent world, that only exists in my mind and soul, will run wild.

[JavelineerKrieg]

The sky i raining, the clouds dark
The poet stand there, his senses sharp

The wind is whispering, and it sounds sad
The poet hears it, and writes with his hand

The book is filled with the words of a wise man
The words of a philosopher, the words of a poet.

Noone can listen the worlds of the wind
Yet the poet stands still there, and burning within.

He listens with interest, with pain, with care
The wind is crying in the left poet's ear

"I have lived many year's, my age has long carried"
The air is in pain hes voice sounds tired

There have been many men, who were big and strong
But noone could have written that poets song.

[wickedwitchofBelgium]

I am a poet myself, nothing famous and still hidden from the world. Absolutely love this and it's so similar to the music I love writing on ❤️
Lucas, you are a wonderful artist. I'm happy I found your music