September 2, 2009
Stop. Listen. What do you hear?
Is it the whispering, tapping of rain?
Softly. On your windowsill; a melody.
Every drop, a second gone by -
Without ever stopping or questioning:

Is it the rhythmic waltzing of fingers
Clicking, breathing the letters,
dancing away?
As if nothing else matters.

Maybe it’s your own breath,
Stitching a pattern on the glass?
“When,” it weakly echoes,
“Shall I be free at last?”

Maybe it’s the whirlwind of thoughts,
Muffling the silence of the empty walls?
Familiar voices sing in your head
Of morals… they chant, they preach, they forbid…
Some exuberant,

others – poignantly sad.

A power to choose remains in your hands
Absorb it, to filter the thoughts
Through its sieve, as if sand.
Now listen. Don’t stop. The music is pure.
Don’t ask “Why?”, instead, yourself learn
To play the music that comes from the soul.

Join the Discussion

This article has 5 comments. Post your own now!

filtered thoughts said...
Sept. 17, 2009 at 6:23 pm
i think you copied other peoples structure too much. try writing on your own. i've seen this poem 100x before. good luck.
Incendiary replied...
Sept. 17, 2009 at 8:03 pm
When Shakespeare is charges with debts to his authors, Landor replies, "Yet he was more original than his originals. He breathed upon dead bodies and brought them into life."
Emerson, the father of that quote and some mind-blowing philosophy, liked to bring old things to life, as well. I, too, hope that concepts which have been so widely overused will one day live a life of their own under the tip of my pen. :) Thanks for your constructive criticism, although I'd like to le... (more »)
herfirstwords said...
Sept. 17, 2009 at 6:11 pm
Wow. This poem is so amazing. I really enjoyed it :)
Incendiary replied...
Sept. 17, 2009 at 8:04 pm
Thank you very much, I am so glad :)
Centennial C. said...
Sept. 17, 2009 at 2:59 pm
This is a beautiful poem, extremely well written. I especially like the second stanza!
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