i sat there and was told to look instrumental, as if i’m some object just sitting here waiting to be played. waiting to be used and practiced on. I feel more and more like a toy everyday i’m around you. every time you call me your pretty little girl, and every time you pull my hair.
I am instrumental in my own downfall. Every detour in my life, every setback, every inconvenience is my own doing. Repercussions to my own self-centered actions. It’s almost as if, when things are going too well, I must find a way to indirectly create difficulties. To ensure I never once experience any sort of success or long-lasting happiness.
And despite what I may try to tell myself, I am entirely to blame.
“What do you mean get rid of him? He was instrumental in me getting this job. I can’t just desert him now, people don’t do that to friends!”
She looked at me strangely.
long, deep, throttling notes filled the dusty streets. she gazed from her fourth floor apartment down on me, i could feel her saddness. but it was only fair. she gets to sing every single day, they all look at her with the greatest admiration. i didn’t want to throw the knife at her long thin neck, but i had to, she wouldn’t sit a day out. today was my day and the whole city heard my instrumental without the destraction of a voice. from now on, it will always be this way.
Sometimes I hate myself. I can hear the music playing in the background as I reach for the sharp objects that I keep, in order to show how much I hate myself. Knife, saw, a pencil with extra lead, for each time a new one breaks.
And then I sit down to sketch out what’s wrong with me, as the instrumental cries along in the background – I take the tablecloth and make it into a masterpiece, shimmering with crayon shavings and bits of wood trimmed off the table. And graphite, smudged into an unhappy face, and letters, wondering why I’m still alive.
She’s been instrumental to my happiness in the past week. The night was black and the stars poked through the darkness, on the eve that we admitted are long held secret affection to each other. To finally know that there is someone out there that cares for my existence is like being reborn. And your ego will never let you know it.
People are instrumental in our lives for a purpose, I thoroughly believe that everyone serves one purpose or another in everyone’s life that they run into. Whether it be a smile or a gesture that makes something ‘click’. People need each other to be instruments for their souls.
We sit in a classroom together everyday. We lift up our instruments. And we play. We create. We make notes on a page come alive with movement and emotion. Melodies bounce against the walls and echo down the school halls.
Sometimes songs don’t have to have words. Sometimes words don’t mean as much as the sounds. Sometimes the sounds are enough to get a person to feel a certain way. Cry, become sad, shiver, or just feel uplifted. Instrumentals…can be just as moving as songs with words. And when a song moves someone in some way, its successful.
instrumental is a word that refers to a piece of music that probably at one point had a singer but does not, or is in a genre that usually has singers but does not. i like them usually
That grey instrumental; the leaning snare, strolling bass line, that voice that croons through the hardened criminal. Jumpy piano, thin guitar, head bobbing dame in pin up curls and eyes so easy they look as if it’s difficult to keep them open. She leans over her microphone and envelopes you into the sound. You hang on to every whispered word and cling to the sounds pulsing behind you. jazz.
“I needed a break”, that’s all he can say after he blew off what seems to be a pathetic display of selfish desires to stand out. He bailed on his band, not by leaving them off the stage but leaving them off for the promise of glory as he played on a different key, a different sound wave, an eerie and out-of-tuned slur of notes as he struck off a illegitimate instrumental piece. The band, out of options, needed to be stand by as this self-perceived virtuoso kicked off an out of placed guitar solo. Well, the audience, they never knew what to react but it was the band that felt most betrayed. It was supposed to be their momentous time to enter the interstate competition but the pressure, the drama and the emotions might have entered too high and too overwhelming for this egoist. He craved attention and he got all of it for the all wrong reasons.
I couldn’t tell him how much I hated the guitar solo in the middle. I’ve always liked instrumentals, but he was terrible. Convincing him that I was perfect for him meant praising him even when he sucked in public. So I wiped my lipstick off his cheek and smiled, telling him he was brilliant.
mmmmmmmmmm music. I think of bluegrass breaks, where the mandolin or banjo player gets loud and does his/her thing. I think of lovely classical music where, because there are no lyrics, you can just listen, sway, and create your own meaning for the song. I think of classic rock with its beautiful, real electric guitar and bass breaks, just making me jump with joy and be so psyched for summer I can barely control myself.
The wild agony of the damaged son of Thor, this lightning prodigy hits off as the instrumental starts to kick on a symphony of thunder and a myriad of light..
Instrumental students often have their own instruments. However, I don’t. I borrow the teacher’s instrument and return it at the end of the lesson. I find this money-saving.
instrumental talent is a thing of splendor. to be able to not only create music, but to form emotional expression that stretches throughout ones body, out through the finger tips, and into the instrument where it is turned to sound is something that not just anyone can achieve.
Its funny that this was it. The final movement, because now All I can do is listen and know that everything is perfect. Whatever filter for cliche I have has escaped me this moment. So just listen, if you read this, listen to something and know that the world is more than enough.
i have found out that my mother has been very instrumental in my life. She is always caring for me and cooking for me. She would do anything for me. I love my mom. <3
the sounds cry out like souls in the night in the fog and dust of this volcanic affair one of fate and fear and far too many tears i can’t rescue myself from the demon from the place i wish i could be with you and us and air fresh air instrumental in the usage of my lungs
the sound is like music to her ears. hearing the wind blow through the trees is lovely and calming, and she wishes she heard it more often. but often she is inside, at a desk, listening to her teachers drone on. often, she is inside, staring at a computer screen and hoping for more. often, everything is never enough expect when she’s outside.
The band plays on. The jazz music seeps into every pore sending electric waves of pleasure and excitement in the crowd. I sit in the back knowing the show by heart by now. I have never missed a performance. Then my little brother takes the center stage. Only nineteen but the guitar solo carries the emotions of a man who has lived a full life. Or maybe he just evokes that thought in me. I am proud of him, but don’t tell him that.
instrumentals dancing and humming through her mind
like the whir of a clock
all in precision time
the smooth sounds of imperfection
as blisters and bruises formed
and she felt weightless under the warmth of the sun
Instrumental version of my life. That would be neat. A sound track, played by violins and cellos, that keeps me company throughout my day. I think I could really get used to that. Instrumental version of my life.
It was instrumental to the teams success for him to be there. He just had to be there. He may not have been the best player, he may not have been the fastest. But nonetheless, he was important. They had never imagined doing it without him. They just couldn’t.
The man was very instrumental. He always wanted to own a shop, maybe also teach lessons in it, try and inspire others to go on and become the famous musician he never could be.
A good attitude is instrumental to a happy life. I can’t believe the simple truth, because is’t such a cliche, and things are rarely as simple as cliche’s suggest, however, it’s true As Abraham Lincoln said, “People are just about as happy as they have a mind to be.”. Happily, I have a mind to be.
by margaret christine @ notes from maggie's farm on 05.06.2012
this was instrumental in the sucsess of the plan, whithout that data the mission would fail. the container ship was aproaching the dock, the agent was on bourd he had the data. However there were forces working against them.
divisive and yet worthy of doing the work. perhaps a key part in getting it done perhaps manipulative. perhaps necessary but none the less instrumental. I don’t know if I like this word or not! Sometimes it works for you and other times it works against you. The word itself is instrumental!
The classical era dawned over Europe, bringing with it a rise in the popularity of instrumental music, and a decline in the popularity of Italian opera – in which singers mutilated the text and meaning of arias to flaunt their vocal technique.
She was instrumental in his arrest, despite her reluctance to lose all that she had worked so hard to gain. It was as undignified as she could have imagined, loud banging on the door at a little before midnight. When the door eventually opened, four formidable men paced through the apartment. She dared not make eye contact with them, for fear that he would sense what she had done. He didn’t. It was over as soon as it began and they took him – no, dragged him – out of their apartment and her life.
On the edge of the world, the corner, the radius, the diagonal, there is a small letter – large enough to be read by a young child perhaps, though I doubt you could read it now.
i sat there and was told to look instrumental, as if i’m some object just sitting here waiting to be played. waiting to be used and practiced on. I feel more and more like a toy everyday i’m around you. every time you call me your pretty little girl, and every time you pull my hair.
I am instrumental in my own downfall. Every detour in my life, every setback, every inconvenience is my own doing. Repercussions to my own self-centered actions. It’s almost as if, when things are going too well, I must find a way to indirectly create difficulties. To ensure I never once experience any sort of success or long-lasting happiness.
And despite what I may try to tell myself, I am entirely to blame.
“What do you mean get rid of him? He was instrumental in me getting this job. I can’t just desert him now, people don’t do that to friends!”
She looked at me strangely.
Your voice for me its like an instrumental song, one of the ones witch you can float, swim in the deep of your mind and feel like nothing matters.
You are Instrumental.
long, deep, throttling notes filled the dusty streets. she gazed from her fourth floor apartment down on me, i could feel her saddness. but it was only fair. she gets to sing every single day, they all look at her with the greatest admiration. i didn’t want to throw the knife at her long thin neck, but i had to, she wouldn’t sit a day out. today was my day and the whole city heard my instrumental without the destraction of a voice. from now on, it will always be this way.
Sometimes I hate myself. I can hear the music playing in the background as I reach for the sharp objects that I keep, in order to show how much I hate myself. Knife, saw, a pencil with extra lead, for each time a new one breaks.
And then I sit down to sketch out what’s wrong with me, as the instrumental cries along in the background – I take the tablecloth and make it into a masterpiece, shimmering with crayon shavings and bits of wood trimmed off the table. And graphite, smudged into an unhappy face, and letters, wondering why I’m still alive.
She’s been instrumental to my happiness in the past week. The night was black and the stars poked through the darkness, on the eve that we admitted are long held secret affection to each other. To finally know that there is someone out there that cares for my existence is like being reborn. And your ego will never let you know it.
People are instrumental in our lives for a purpose, I thoroughly believe that everyone serves one purpose or another in everyone’s life that they run into. Whether it be a smile or a gesture that makes something ‘click’. People need each other to be instruments for their souls.
The super moon
Was musical and broad
Lighting up the melody
Of the night sky
Seagulls flew past
Their wings becoming flashes
Of gleaming orange and gold
Pumpkin lightening bolts
Orbiting
The majestic lunar oasis
We sit in a classroom together everyday. We lift up our instruments. And we play. We create. We make notes on a page come alive with movement and emotion. Melodies bounce against the walls and echo down the school halls.
Sometimes songs don’t have to have words. Sometimes words don’t mean as much as the sounds. Sometimes the sounds are enough to get a person to feel a certain way. Cry, become sad, shiver, or just feel uplifted. Instrumentals…can be just as moving as songs with words. And when a song moves someone in some way, its successful.
instrumental is a word that refers to a piece of music that probably at one point had a singer but does not, or is in a genre that usually has singers but does not. i like them usually
That grey instrumental; the leaning snare, strolling bass line, that voice that croons through the hardened criminal. Jumpy piano, thin guitar, head bobbing dame in pin up curls and eyes so easy they look as if it’s difficult to keep them open. She leans over her microphone and envelopes you into the sound. You hang on to every whispered word and cling to the sounds pulsing behind you. jazz.
“I needed a break”, that’s all he can say after he blew off what seems to be a pathetic display of selfish desires to stand out. He bailed on his band, not by leaving them off the stage but leaving them off for the promise of glory as he played on a different key, a different sound wave, an eerie and out-of-tuned slur of notes as he struck off a illegitimate instrumental piece. The band, out of options, needed to be stand by as this self-perceived virtuoso kicked off an out of placed guitar solo. Well, the audience, they never knew what to react but it was the band that felt most betrayed. It was supposed to be their momentous time to enter the interstate competition but the pressure, the drama and the emotions might have entered too high and too overwhelming for this egoist. He craved attention and he got all of it for the all wrong reasons.
I couldn’t tell him how much I hated the guitar solo in the middle. I’ve always liked instrumentals, but he was terrible. Convincing him that I was perfect for him meant praising him even when he sucked in public. So I wiped my lipstick off his cheek and smiled, telling him he was brilliant.
mmmmmmmmmm music. I think of bluegrass breaks, where the mandolin or banjo player gets loud and does his/her thing. I think of lovely classical music where, because there are no lyrics, you can just listen, sway, and create your own meaning for the song. I think of classic rock with its beautiful, real electric guitar and bass breaks, just making me jump with joy and be so psyched for summer I can barely control myself.
My mom loves listening to instrumental music; especially to Kenny G.’s music. But I love my mom more than she loves Kenny G.
The wild agony of the damaged son of Thor, this lightning prodigy hits off as the instrumental starts to kick on a symphony of thunder and a myriad of light..
Instrumental students often have their own instruments. However, I don’t. I borrow the teacher’s instrument and return it at the end of the lesson. I find this money-saving.
instrumental talent is a thing of splendor. to be able to not only create music, but to form emotional expression that stretches throughout ones body, out through the finger tips, and into the instrument where it is turned to sound is something that not just anyone can achieve.
Its funny that this was it. The final movement, because now All I can do is listen and know that everything is perfect. Whatever filter for cliche I have has escaped me this moment. So just listen, if you read this, listen to something and know that the world is more than enough.
i have found out that my mother has been very instrumental in my life. She is always caring for me and cooking for me. She would do anything for me. I love my mom. <3
the sounds cry out like souls in the night in the fog and dust of this volcanic affair one of fate and fear and far too many tears i can’t rescue myself from the demon from the place i wish i could be with you and us and air fresh air instrumental in the usage of my lungs
I have never taken instrumental music.
the sound is like music to her ears. hearing the wind blow through the trees is lovely and calming, and she wishes she heard it more often. but often she is inside, at a desk, listening to her teachers drone on. often, she is inside, staring at a computer screen and hoping for more. often, everything is never enough expect when she’s outside.
The band plays on. The jazz music seeps into every pore sending electric waves of pleasure and excitement in the crowd. I sit in the back knowing the show by heart by now. I have never missed a performance. Then my little brother takes the center stage. Only nineteen but the guitar solo carries the emotions of a man who has lived a full life. Or maybe he just evokes that thought in me. I am proud of him, but don’t tell him that.
The sounds swell to a crescendo. My heart races. I can hear the blood pounding in my ears. I’m short of breath.
Suddenly, it breaks. The high peaks and then fades.
I hit the replay button.
instrumentals dancing and humming through her mind
like the whir of a clock
all in precision time
the smooth sounds of imperfection
as blisters and bruises formed
and she felt weightless under the warmth of the sun
Instrumental version of my life. That would be neat. A sound track, played by violins and cellos, that keeps me company throughout my day. I think I could really get used to that. Instrumental version of my life.
It was instrumental to the teams success for him to be there. He just had to be there. He may not have been the best player, he may not have been the fastest. But nonetheless, he was important. They had never imagined doing it without him. They just couldn’t.
The man was very instrumental. He always wanted to own a shop, maybe also teach lessons in it, try and inspire others to go on and become the famous musician he never could be.
A good attitude is instrumental to a happy life. I can’t believe the simple truth, because is’t such a cliche, and things are rarely as simple as cliche’s suggest, however, it’s true As Abraham Lincoln said, “People are just about as happy as they have a mind to be.”. Happily, I have a mind to be.
this was instrumental in the sucsess of the plan, whithout that data the mission would fail. the container ship was aproaching the dock, the agent was on bourd he had the data. However there were forces working against them.
bla bla
instrument, group, class actvitity, music,
divisive and yet worthy of doing the work. perhaps a key part in getting it done perhaps manipulative. perhaps necessary but none the less instrumental. I don’t know if I like this word or not! Sometimes it works for you and other times it works against you. The word itself is instrumental!
The classical era dawned over Europe, bringing with it a rise in the popularity of instrumental music, and a decline in the popularity of Italian opera – in which singers mutilated the text and meaning of arias to flaunt their vocal technique.
She was instrumental in his arrest, despite her reluctance to lose all that she had worked so hard to gain. It was as undignified as she could have imagined, loud banging on the door at a little before midnight. When the door eventually opened, four formidable men paced through the apartment. She dared not make eye contact with them, for fear that he would sense what she had done. He didn’t. It was over as soon as it began and they took him – no, dragged him – out of their apartment and her life.
On the edge of the world, the corner, the radius, the diagonal, there is a small letter – large enough to be read by a young child perhaps, though I doubt you could read it now.
It’s alright. I know I would be the same.