Listening to the song in my head, the beat driving me forward and making me smile all the more when I finally locate it on the internet, YouTube or Pandora or Spotify or what have you, and the aural manifestation makes me smile even bigger, and suddenly thinking everything will be ok. Such is the power of music.
He wasn’t really listening to what she was telling him. He was in shock. The words coming from her mouth couldn’t be real. “Hey? Are you even hearing me?” she asked him with her most annoyed voice.
I’m good at listening. Many people come to me looking for sage advice or answers to their problems. And I know the reason. It’s because I haven’t really lived.
The situations they come to me with are ones which I haven’t experienced myself, hence, I’m an impartial view on the matter, give them an outsiders view of the problem and tell them how crazy they’re being over uncut grass.
listening is considered to be a very important basic skill of learning any language. our brain functionalities decide what kind of reaction to mete upon hearing different ,kinds of things. it is also taken to be a
To Bjork. All my life, I thought of her as a hysterical author, someone who thinks she is special. But at some point I lost that little part of me that was specialized in stereotypes and judgement. More open now. Life is to be opened up.
Listening to your parents??
Listening in school
Listening to people’s problems – helping
Paying attention
Listen and silent have the same letters
Listening to music to make you feel better
Listening to the rain as it hits the window
this is the river delta now; can’t you hear
conversations withering into thin dead air through the telephone, the ringing in my ears
filling the void where your voice once lay
and I say to you:
“Are you okay?”
You’re not listening.
I didn’t mean to drift apart: can’t you hear
How many I call your name down the corridor, how many times you do not respond
I am drowning in our sparsity
and I say to you:
“Are we okay?”
You’re not listening.
I want you to love me like you love them: can’t you hear
the laughter you shared with everyone else, the times you shut me out and left me
walking three paces behind
She wasn’t listening. She was so full of hatred, she was indignified, so incensed over her own injustice, that she just didn’t want to. She couldn’t. Except now, she was trapped – cornered.
listen to me. listen to me when I am screaming at your face. listening to me when shouting at you. listen to my inner voice, the sound of my soul. are you listening to me? listen to me when I say I hate you. listen to me when I kiss you listen to me
I love you.
listen. listen. listen. listen. what do you hear? the trees? the spring? the snow?
closed boxes and closed hearts.
the world is close and cold and wise.
but you my friend are the only red around.
listening is breathing. it is relaxing just knowing about something entirely different than yourself something taking you far far away to where the birds are blue and the moon is black. the cats may not be there, no need to worry.
she sat, listening to the sound of her thoughts. Then, she felt suddenly compelled to speak out loud. She didn’t, but it took all of her willpower not to. She needed to hear it–hear her own voice, and compare the voice she heard in her head, just to know that they’re the same, or she is two different people, since they always said different things.
The birds were chirping outside my window. I knew it must be warm, otherwise they wouldn’t sound so happy. Birds don’t merrily chirp when it’s miserable outside. I imagined the sun must be shining, the sky a clear blue, and the grass a perfect shade of green. I imagined all of this as I lay in my bedroom listing to the birds outside. My body is broken, pain ravages me and I cannot move. Breathing hurts and there is a pain in my chest that leaves me feeling terrified. I lay in my bed, unsure if I will continue on for another day, listing to the birds chirp away. What is wrong with me does not affect them, or anyone else, in the least. No one knows how much pain I’m in, no one else knows how desperate I’ve become. I put on a brave face, I smile, laugh and play along. But on the inside, I’ve stopped listening.
The halls were abandoned, my mind established it the ezzel for the thoughts ready to explode. I splashed and tarnished the pure halls, placing individuals as receivers and dealers. The halls listened to my desires and painted a life fittingly. A perfect modern art exhibit, but still abandoned.
Listening to music is the best anti depressant out there, it makes your mind go crazy with emotions, leaving you feeling like you can conquer the world.
a question
in a faded memory
drifting to vaguaries
all those years
i wasn’t listening
as the words spun around my dizzy head
i found an answer in love
but lust has become
obscured.
Listening is something that some people find hard to do. When I was growing up, my mother used to say to me a lot that there was a big difference between hearing and listening, and I always thought she was completely mental and honestly a bit annoying. Now, however, i can see how right she was. You can talk and talk and argue and discuss until you’re “blue in the face”, but if the other person is just hearing you instead of listening, then you will find yourself having wasted your time. In order to fully comprehend another person’s point of view, we need to ensure that we truly are listening as opposed to just hearing. Take a moment to think about what that person has just said to you. Pick at it and look at it from different angles. Test it to see what it feels like coming from yourself before you answer. Consider. Listen.
When I get really stressed out I fill up the bath tub, get in, and sink down below the water and I listen. I listen to my heart beat thump thump thump thump. I listen to the reminder that I am alive, that I am breathing, and that I am fighting. When I listen, I prove to myself that I am here for a reason and I am not going anywhere. Thump thump. Thump thump.
I keep listening to this voice inside my head
It takes away any of my perfect words
And leaves me with a doubt I cannot conquer
I have no words, am left fathomless
Where do I go from here
My fingers are stuck, locked, failing at creating poignant thoughts
Nothing happens
Nothing here
Nothing
Nothing
are you listening? do you hear? or do you hear and not really listen. there are so many things that i say, that i want you to KNOW, but do you actually take them in? because… it seems like u hear me speaking, but you dont REALLY hear my VOICE. you dont understand or even try to grasp what i speak about. what i tell you. faakin bullshit. dont tell me you are listening when you cannot even answer the questions i ask and do not remember the statements i say. FUCK YOURSELF.
When a couple argues nowadays it’s like war all over. The guns and bullets are the words that hurt or the silence that they give the other. After some time the other falls and its over before they can regret.
They forget to listen to the heart of their partner.
I wish that you would stop crying, so that you could listen instead. With all that sorrow pouring out of your mouth it is too difficult to hear the birds sing. That waterfall of tears and its roaring covers up the babble of the peaceful creek. It is no wonder the thundercloud above your head obscures the sunshine from your glistening eyes.
Listening has always been very important to me. When someone talks to me, I listen. When I talk to someone, I want them to really listen to me. Without listening, we’d only hear nonsense.
Listening to music is extremely relaxing. I heard it releases endorphins into the body. That’s probably why teens are so into it. Personally, it just sounds good. Listening is also a great way to learn things as I myself am a verbal learner.
The difference between life and death is sometimes just having someone to listen someone who cares enough. Listening says your life is worth my time and worth keeping around. Listen to others, it’s how you show you care. Je t’aime.
Listening is more than just not talking. It’s understanding and attempting to connect. it’s reading body language, tone of voice and really putting for the effort to understand someone. i wish people would listen more. Sometimes listening is all it takes for someone to feel cared for. Je t’aime.
She pivoted violently, pressing her back against the tree and trying to quiet panicking breaths. She grabbed his arm and flashed a look of complete alarm. He nodded. He knew.
He saw it in her eyes. Her every desire, her every need. He didn’t quite know it word for word, he could only have a gut feeling on how her clockwork functioned. She felt the same.
Nobody seems to be hearing me. Ever. I scream and scream, but my words never matter. Why, you ask? Simple. Age. Experience. Moxie. Feminism. Pick your poison, it doesn’t wont matter. All that matters is that no amount of my yelling and flustering and waving of arms will ever amount to anything. Time to get out.
First, it was the silence of adoration, of moments of sitting mute from happiness. Under seven years old. My father used to blow dry my inky hair that I inherited precisely from him as I sat with his legs flanking me. Talking interrupted the black noise of the blow dryer so I used my arms to convey whenever he lowered the hot air too close or when I felt my hair was sufficiently baked.
He would let me have mouthfuls of his coffee ice cream when my mother was looking away too. It was our secret because my mother was outlandishly convinced that any caffeine would stunt my growth irreparably. She was always heart-wrenching-ly anxious about small things. But the ice cream kept me still and otherwise complacent wherever we went after we left the ice cream parlor. I still grew. Taller than my mother easily.
Then, there was the strain. After we moved continents, the silences began to fill with adulthood seeping in. The lack of words was more accusatory than peaceful. How dare my parents be parents, I seemed to often think. I found silences less wearying than talking, especially when we uprooted ourselves again from the complex Pacific Northwest that I dearly loved to elsewhere. Gone were the smells of petrichor mixed with lush pine, the patchwork of moody greys in skies, and most of all, everyone who grew with me from my childhood to teenagehood.
After the next move, my silences became armor. Speaking seemed to feel as if it were an unfairly divided chore between us or surgeon tools slicing knowingly to the where the pain lay. I could find blame in all things, if moved to do so. My father would repeat, “what happened?” to me, while I would respond “I don’t know” or with a stare. The latter pains me even now to recall.
As years passed, our silences became salves that we can carry cleanly anywhere for each other’s sake. I grew more. Learned more. Wised up. Emerged from my rigid chrysalis happily. We both know how many words silences condense without losing any of them. I lean in to show that I understand. I smile to reply.
Listen to the sounds of water in winter. Snowflakes hiss like matches as they fall on a frigid spring and on a melty morning Lake Michigan is a bowl of crackling rice krispies.
Her eyes were red, hallow and sunken.
Her spirit was broken.
She had been listening to the
screams of desperation,
cries of pure frustration,
moans of agony
and pleads of futility
from the people before her.
Soon it would be her turn.
Listening to the song in my head, the beat driving me forward and making me smile all the more when I finally locate it on the internet, YouTube or Pandora or Spotify or what have you, and the aural manifestation makes me smile even bigger, and suddenly thinking everything will be ok. Such is the power of music.
He wasn’t really listening to what she was telling him. He was in shock. The words coming from her mouth couldn’t be real. “Hey? Are you even hearing me?” she asked him with her most annoyed voice.
I’m good at listening. Many people come to me looking for sage advice or answers to their problems. And I know the reason. It’s because I haven’t really lived.
The situations they come to me with are ones which I haven’t experienced myself, hence, I’m an impartial view on the matter, give them an outsiders view of the problem and tell them how crazy they’re being over uncut grass.
I could listen to you forever.
I could, I could, I would.
You’re the soundtrack of my heart and my mind and my soul.
My love.
listening is considered to be a very important basic skill of learning any language. our brain functionalities decide what kind of reaction to mete upon hearing different ,kinds of things. it is also taken to be a
To Bjork. All my life, I thought of her as a hysterical author, someone who thinks she is special. But at some point I lost that little part of me that was specialized in stereotypes and judgement. More open now. Life is to be opened up.
Listening to your parents??
Listening in school
Listening to people’s problems – helping
Paying attention
Listen and silent have the same letters
Listening to music to make you feel better
Listening to the rain as it hits the window
this is the river delta now; can’t you hear
conversations withering into thin dead air through the telephone, the ringing in my ears
filling the void where your voice once lay
and I say to you:
“Are you okay?”
You’re not listening.
I didn’t mean to drift apart: can’t you hear
How many I call your name down the corridor, how many times you do not respond
I am drowning in our sparsity
and I say to you:
“Are we okay?”
You’re not listening.
I want you to love me like you love them: can’t you hear
the laughter you shared with everyone else, the times you shut me out and left me
walking three paces behind
and I say to you:
“I’m not okay.”
You’re not listening.
Listening to good music good for the soul, it give you something to hold on to when you are lost or in need of a clear perspective on life.
She wasn’t listening. She was so full of hatred, she was indignified, so incensed over her own injustice, that she just didn’t want to. She couldn’t. Except now, she was trapped – cornered.
listen to me. listen to me when I am screaming at your face. listening to me when shouting at you. listen to my inner voice, the sound of my soul. are you listening to me? listen to me when I say I hate you. listen to me when I kiss you listen to me
I love you.
thudthump
thudthump
thudthump
thudthump
thudthump
thudthump
thudthump
. . . . . -wheezepant hiccup
sigh
thudthump
thudthumpthudthump
rustlerustleswishrustlerubrustle
coughcrackle hum~
thudthump thudthump thudthumpnestlethudthumpgrindthudthump
‘wanna get up?’
listen. listen. listen. listen. what do you hear? the trees? the spring? the snow?
closed boxes and closed hearts.
the world is close and cold and wise.
but you my friend are the only red around.
listening is breathing. it is relaxing just knowing about something entirely different than yourself something taking you far far away to where the birds are blue and the moon is black. the cats may not be there, no need to worry.
she sat, listening to the sound of her thoughts. Then, she felt suddenly compelled to speak out loud. She didn’t, but it took all of her willpower not to. She needed to hear it–hear her own voice, and compare the voice she heard in her head, just to know that they’re the same, or she is two different people, since they always said different things.
The birds were chirping outside my window. I knew it must be warm, otherwise they wouldn’t sound so happy. Birds don’t merrily chirp when it’s miserable outside. I imagined the sun must be shining, the sky a clear blue, and the grass a perfect shade of green. I imagined all of this as I lay in my bedroom listing to the birds outside. My body is broken, pain ravages me and I cannot move. Breathing hurts and there is a pain in my chest that leaves me feeling terrified. I lay in my bed, unsure if I will continue on for another day, listing to the birds chirp away. What is wrong with me does not affect them, or anyone else, in the least. No one knows how much pain I’m in, no one else knows how desperate I’ve become. I put on a brave face, I smile, laugh and play along. But on the inside, I’ve stopped listening.
The halls were abandoned, my mind established it the ezzel for the thoughts ready to explode. I splashed and tarnished the pure halls, placing individuals as receivers and dealers. The halls listened to my desires and painted a life fittingly. A perfect modern art exhibit, but still abandoned.
Listening to music is the best anti depressant out there, it makes your mind go crazy with emotions, leaving you feeling like you can conquer the world.
a question
in a faded memory
drifting to vaguaries
all those years
i wasn’t listening
as the words spun around my dizzy head
i found an answer in love
but lust has become
obscured.
Listening is something that some people find hard to do. When I was growing up, my mother used to say to me a lot that there was a big difference between hearing and listening, and I always thought she was completely mental and honestly a bit annoying. Now, however, i can see how right she was. You can talk and talk and argue and discuss until you’re “blue in the face”, but if the other person is just hearing you instead of listening, then you will find yourself having wasted your time. In order to fully comprehend another person’s point of view, we need to ensure that we truly are listening as opposed to just hearing. Take a moment to think about what that person has just said to you. Pick at it and look at it from different angles. Test it to see what it feels like coming from yourself before you answer. Consider. Listen.
When I get really stressed out I fill up the bath tub, get in, and sink down below the water and I listen. I listen to my heart beat thump thump thump thump. I listen to the reminder that I am alive, that I am breathing, and that I am fighting. When I listen, I prove to myself that I am here for a reason and I am not going anywhere. Thump thump. Thump thump.
I keep listening to this voice inside my head
It takes away any of my perfect words
And leaves me with a doubt I cannot conquer
I have no words, am left fathomless
Where do I go from here
My fingers are stuck, locked, failing at creating poignant thoughts
Nothing happens
Nothing here
Nothing
Nothing
It is an art. Not all can listen. All they do is hear.Good listeners are often successful. Because they can hear universe.
are you listening? do you hear? or do you hear and not really listen. there are so many things that i say, that i want you to KNOW, but do you actually take them in? because… it seems like u hear me speaking, but you dont REALLY hear my VOICE. you dont understand or even try to grasp what i speak about. what i tell you. faakin bullshit. dont tell me you are listening when you cannot even answer the questions i ask and do not remember the statements i say. FUCK YOURSELF.
Who would you listen? The head or the heart?
I guess I’m only listening to the head.
Actually, that’s why I’m not able to write another sentence.
Listening.
One simple word that we need but we forget to do.
When a couple argues nowadays it’s like war all over. The guns and bullets are the words that hurt or the silence that they give the other. After some time the other falls and its over before they can regret.
They forget to listen to the heart of their partner.
Then, they regret losing the other….
But it’s too late to fix things again.
Listening to the waves ebb, flow and crash! Oh my love, you don’t know what you do to me. I’m mesmerized.
I wish that you would stop crying, so that you could listen instead. With all that sorrow pouring out of your mouth it is too difficult to hear the birds sing. That waterfall of tears and its roaring covers up the babble of the peaceful creek. It is no wonder the thundercloud above your head obscures the sunshine from your glistening eyes.
Listening has always been very important to me. When someone talks to me, I listen. When I talk to someone, I want them to really listen to me. Without listening, we’d only hear nonsense.
If you could hear
the thoughts running
rushing racing
through my mind
you wouldn’t be so happy
If you listened to me
the first time
that I spoke
screamed swore
that I would make the move
you wouldn’t be so
sad right now
(would you?)
Listening to music is extremely relaxing. I heard it releases endorphins into the body. That’s probably why teens are so into it. Personally, it just sounds good. Listening is also a great way to learn things as I myself am a verbal learner.
The difference between life and death is sometimes just having someone to listen someone who cares enough. Listening says your life is worth my time and worth keeping around. Listen to others, it’s how you show you care. Je t’aime.
Listening is more than just not talking. It’s understanding and attempting to connect. it’s reading body language, tone of voice and really putting for the effort to understand someone. i wish people would listen more. Sometimes listening is all it takes for someone to feel cared for. Je t’aime.
She pivoted violently, pressing her back against the tree and trying to quiet panicking breaths. She grabbed his arm and flashed a look of complete alarm. He nodded. He knew.
He saw it in her eyes. Her every desire, her every need. He didn’t quite know it word for word, he could only have a gut feeling on how her clockwork functioned. She felt the same.
Nobody seems to be hearing me. Ever. I scream and scream, but my words never matter. Why, you ask? Simple. Age. Experience. Moxie. Feminism. Pick your poison, it doesn’t wont matter. All that matters is that no amount of my yelling and flustering and waving of arms will ever amount to anything. Time to get out.
My father taught me silence.
First, it was the silence of adoration, of moments of sitting mute from happiness. Under seven years old. My father used to blow dry my inky hair that I inherited precisely from him as I sat with his legs flanking me. Talking interrupted the black noise of the blow dryer so I used my arms to convey whenever he lowered the hot air too close or when I felt my hair was sufficiently baked.
He would let me have mouthfuls of his coffee ice cream when my mother was looking away too. It was our secret because my mother was outlandishly convinced that any caffeine would stunt my growth irreparably. She was always heart-wrenching-ly anxious about small things. But the ice cream kept me still and otherwise complacent wherever we went after we left the ice cream parlor. I still grew. Taller than my mother easily.
Then, there was the strain. After we moved continents, the silences began to fill with adulthood seeping in. The lack of words was more accusatory than peaceful. How dare my parents be parents, I seemed to often think. I found silences less wearying than talking, especially when we uprooted ourselves again from the complex Pacific Northwest that I dearly loved to elsewhere. Gone were the smells of petrichor mixed with lush pine, the patchwork of moody greys in skies, and most of all, everyone who grew with me from my childhood to teenagehood.
After the next move, my silences became armor. Speaking seemed to feel as if it were an unfairly divided chore between us or surgeon tools slicing knowingly to the where the pain lay. I could find blame in all things, if moved to do so. My father would repeat, “what happened?” to me, while I would respond “I don’t know” or with a stare. The latter pains me even now to recall.
As years passed, our silences became salves that we can carry cleanly anywhere for each other’s sake. I grew more. Learned more. Wised up. Emerged from my rigid chrysalis happily. We both know how many words silences condense without losing any of them. I lean in to show that I understand. I smile to reply.
what I want to say is planted in my mind and my mouth is empty.
“Well?”
“I’m thinking.”
“Listen!”
“I’m listening.”
“Just listen!”
“I’ve been listening the whole time.”
The poem was clear in my head. “Listen to the exhortation of the dawn.” Sanskrit. Kalidasa. Somewhere, a composer wrote a song to the words.
“What do you want me to listen to?”
You stumbled mentally. I could see it. Like a sunrise wavering on a hilly brain, hesitant to cast the crest in sunlight.
Listen to the sounds of water in winter. Snowflakes hiss like matches as they fall on a frigid spring and on a melty morning Lake Michigan is a bowl of crackling rice krispies.
Her eyes were red, hallow and sunken.
Her spirit was broken.
She had been listening to the
screams of desperation,
cries of pure frustration,
moans of agony
and pleads of futility
from the people before her.
Soon it would be her turn.