Categories > Original > Poetry
From The Underground/Mosh
0 Reviewsunderground music and slam dance
I wrote this for my intensive writing/creative writing class back when I was 15 which was well...last year.
From The Underground/Mosh
Underground
Music springs from “the underground”,
The faces of those who make it become one.
They are some of those who will be spared
When all the world’s creativity dies of shock.
They are blessed with creativity,
But cursed with tragic circumstance.
A typical “tortured soul” to the naked eye,
But a work of art to those who dare to look closer.
Beyond her inked flesh,
Beyond his alcohol stained voice,
There is a heart strumming on guitar strings.
But as all that this being touches become gold
The being itself turns to ash.
Mosh
It’s all access
And free admission
Pay attention folks
The front man is on a mission
We all know what your craving for,
A little bit of danger,
A bit of blood,
A bit of gore.
Every soul has a hint of macabre all it’s own.
We show adoration for what is shown.
The stench seems sweet,
The heat refreshing
The sweat, the grinding,
The jumping, the screaming.
It washes over you.
Believe me when I say some flesh may turn black and blue.
But as heightened as everything seems
Try and remember what you’re wearing,
Cause you may just end up going home
With one shoe missing.
From The Underground/Mosh
Underground
Music springs from “the underground”,
The faces of those who make it become one.
They are some of those who will be spared
When all the world’s creativity dies of shock.
They are blessed with creativity,
But cursed with tragic circumstance.
A typical “tortured soul” to the naked eye,
But a work of art to those who dare to look closer.
Beyond her inked flesh,
Beyond his alcohol stained voice,
There is a heart strumming on guitar strings.
But as all that this being touches become gold
The being itself turns to ash.
Mosh
It’s all access
And free admission
Pay attention folks
The front man is on a mission
We all know what your craving for,
A little bit of danger,
A bit of blood,
A bit of gore.
Every soul has a hint of macabre all it’s own.
We show adoration for what is shown.
The stench seems sweet,
The heat refreshing
The sweat, the grinding,
The jumping, the screaming.
It washes over you.
Believe me when I say some flesh may turn black and blue.
But as heightened as everything seems
Try and remember what you’re wearing,
Cause you may just end up going home
With one shoe missing.
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