The sound of the shotguns, music of war:

sensory response poem, see picture for more.

  • (c) Danielle Parrish 2017

 

Lonely, cold, hurt, bold, calm.

The sound of battle fire – fear runs through the veins.

Crunch, leaves, forest, ash, blood.

I’m scared for my family, my friends and my welfare.

Boom, sizzle, pop, snap

The air was cool like the corpses rotting bodies void of souls, the sound of silence deafening as the soldier marched forward.

Frail hands glide over the old mahogany grand

Blood stained keys seep into the wood

That once stood in the parlour of a family’s antique home

Alone is stands, but is not alone in song

 

Silence, music, sound, out of tune, out of time – soft

 

The crackle of the shotguns,  poisonous to peace

Faces of the fallen, heroes and enemies weep

 

Second chances are futile as all is now done

On the battlefield of silence, only one song is sung.

 

A lonely feeling, no pain just numbness– all past tensions fall away into nothingness.

 

It was the eve of the end, the silence of the battleground. The air was cool like the corpses rotting bodies void of souls, the sound of silence defining as the soldier marched forward.

 

A clearing in the woods, musty and stale held secrets and sorrows of a past mans tale. The melody of serenity plays through the chilling air.

All is lost but hope is still there.

Frail hands glide over the old mahogany grand

Blood stained keys seep into the wood

That once stood in the parlour of a family’s antique home

Alone is stands, but is not alone in melody.

 

The crackle of the shotguns,  poisonous to peace

Faces of the fallen, heroes and enemies weep

 

Second chances are futile as all is now done

On the battlefield of silence, the only song is now sung.

 

Like a child with an innocent curiosity to question:

  • (c) Danielle Parrish 2017

 

I am awake like the clock’s  never ending tick

I am a restless train of thought, running off the tracks

I am the voice inside you that burns at your core

You are powerless against my

constant  

Overbearing

unwavering  control

You are divergent

You will never stop me

I am the fuel that burns at your fire

 

Listen… L i s t e n  t o  m e!

The voice inside you nags and natters in your brain

Everyone you know

thinks you are a horrid mess

The things that make you You

irritate them endlessly…

What do they REALLY think about you?

You will never find out

You are too cowardly to question

YOU know you do not  need to be

“happy”

to be successful…

So why bother trying?

 

It will follow you – you will never feel alone

In every breath and moment it torments you

 

I am right. I know all about you

You are wrong

like a child with an innocent curiosity to question

I will always be there for you

When all others leave

I

  will

        remain…

You will never be free — as long as you listen to me…

I am all you know

Why change that?

Why destroy our bond ?

 

These voices in your head pulling at your soul

Which is right – which is wrong?

Should I even listen?

Do you even want to?

 

Let go

be free  

 

The turmoil you create will be your downfall

Be the river

that was once a stream

Forge new beginnings

Encounter your  milestones

Do not run from them

 

So let that voice inside you speak

          listen to it  

                 Imagine its perspective

                               but never let it engulf you whole

 

Anxiety is an energy

You —

Feed its desires

You —

Fuel its cruel intentions

Only you —

can smother it

Let those embers dissipate.

 

Manuscripts of the mind – Poetry

No words can reach my heart

it is locked up inside

no books or ideas can quench my mind

philosophy is a hunger and i feed on it daily

an open heart to ideas of the past expand my future

but i cant bear to loose my present

my family and my life all mundane but worth it.

so i write to you dear reader in hopes you’ll understand

a world with ideas is great but love is worth more

enjoy what living gives you,  for you wont experience it again.

I might be old but i am wise – some have said, much before my time.

but what time was it that i wasted writing manuscripts of my mind.

  • (c) Danielle Parrish