It’s not much of a life you’re living, scratching your shambolic thoughts down on scraps of paper and listening to melancholy songs. You are like a feather soaked in cheap wine. So much potential to fly but you are drowning, listless and unbearably soggy. It would be foolhardy to assume these days will amount to anything.
It wasnt working. Her breath was still and it wasnt working. She laid her head on his chest and could hear his heart. The blood pumping through his body, and her, a content listener, waiting for the moment for him to whisper something bigger than love into her ear. She waited, and listened, and it wasnt working.
Sometime I worry that people don’t think I’m a good listener. I spend so much time trying to talk about myself without succeeding. Even in writing this I’ve written about myself. I should start again. I hope people think I’m a good listener.
I am listening. Listening to a man professing his love for me. Words flowing from his mouth painting a picture I can not come to see. I listen but I do not hear. I see what is not heard. But I listen, every day, every second, every hour
I have worked on my listening over the past few years. I have in the past had habit of interrupting while others were speaking-but why are my thoughts more important than the thoughts of those who I am conversing with?
They told me to listen. They told me she’d come back. But I sit here, twiddling my thumbs, because I’ve never know my hands to feel so alone. They cry for me, I don’t need to.
I wait.
I hear the thundering ocean.
Echoes of grief. My soul mumbles with the fluidity of her voice, it caresses my aching brain.
Something I think I’m good at , I wish others could hear how I’m listening, I’m there doing more then what they think I’m doing, do I see them do I see what there talking about, do I feel for them? Or am I just making them think I am?
he accused me of not listening to him, but i was. it was just that his words weren’t ringing true to me, and they were falling flat, and they were sinking to the ground, dense with unimportance. he doesn’t understand what’s important to me and what i can cast aside, which is a terrible flaw to have, since all he wants to do is talk talk talk to me and hope that i listen to every single damn word that flows from his mouth. but tomorrow i will tell him that i am not going to do that anymore and he can find somebody else to listen to his crap because i have better words to listen to.
I can hear you singing in my ear as the silence fills the room. If you lsten closely you will hear; otherwise it is just the same of what everyone else hears. Do you really think that you are the only one who wishes to hear or is the same as the words you didn’t hear before?
Is listening good for you? yes it is, apparently, or so they say, listening to the wind, to the people, to the fan to everything around you. Isn’t it hard to keep a straight line moving? how do you wish to be named if you don’t listen you can’t see if you can’t see you can’t feel and if you can’t feel then who are you?
Do you hear the words?
Do you hear the way that they speak to you?
The things they teach you,
the things they know.
Can you tell me what they’re saying?
Can you imagine what they will tell you?
Are you LISTENING?
Are you?
i have a hard time listening to people. i feel like i’m more of a talker than anything. i wish i had a little bit more skill in the ‘listening’ department. maybe i’ll try and work on it sometime….. maybe not. i talk too much. lol.
To music, every word burning. The lyrics speak my truth, as if Bob Dylan or Joni Mitchell were here in my living room, narating my life. Feeling every note in my toes. As if they were written for me in this moment.
“I’m listening to you.” That’s what he said. Is it bad that I don’t believe him? I really want to. But I know better. He never listens to me. Nobody listens to me. I guess that’s my fault. I never say anything worth listening to. I don’t even want to listen to myself sometimes. I guess it’s not his fault. But why does he have to lie about it?
The words flow unceasingly from my lips, but they never reach the ear of my listener. They always fall short and hit the ground. I try to propel them forward in hopes that someone may hear and understand. But all attempts are useless, and every single one of them fails. No one cares, no one hears, no one is listening.
People always point out a difference between listening and hearing, with listening usually meaning actually understanding or concentrating. But does it really matter? No, because I can listen to you and still not care what you say.
The most beautiful sense. The most delightful and delicate. it sounds of just closing your eyes and blocking the world outside. listening to the sounds of waves and the way they crash on rocks and oh so lightly onto your face. Listen, can you hear the sounds of the world all around you?
Did it strike you to the core like it did me? Did it leave you lying alone listening to the pathetic drumming of your heart beat? I want to grab you and weave myself through the blacks of your eyes in hopes of becoming a little more than a stain on your favorite t-shirt, I won’t speak, only listen, sit, listening, to neurons connecting and shooting signals to your gracious body, because to love something you must know it from the inside, so here I sit, quietly listening to that symphony of a heartbeat and the quiet clicks of a spark that is igniting at the hips every time they crash together, I am here, within your head, tucked quietly in the back as you love a girl from the outside and I love you from within and even outward and even beyond and beyond.
Listening to music, but only following the words that run in circles through my head over and over. I’m glad for the time that we get, he said. What exactly does that mean for us, here and now? I’m so lost.
I was listening to her speak and I swear I was soaking it all in like an empty sponge waiting to be filled with something other than this empty space. I was not only listening to her voice but what she really meant and what she was trying to depict. When you really listen, you can fall in love.
i am listening to the silence. it’s loud and clear. or muffled—and more cluttering than noise. it is noise. i am listening for whats found in the silence. me. thoughts. feelings. core. honesty. life. insecurities. love. spaces. i am listening for whatever’s there.
The shouting grew louder. The child was crying. So were the parents. But it didn’t stop the shouting, the outpouring of all the hate, regret, and neglect that accumulates over the course of a relationship.
The couple in the apartment above were profoundly uncomfortable. The woman was debating calling the police before a gunshot punctuated the dissonant noise with silence. Her wife had a different idea. She knew that some things shouldn’t be seen, they must be witnessed. Some things shouldn’t just be heard, they must be listened to.
I’m listening to a song. Music made from cups. It’s quite an interesting concept – music from the ordinary. How would I make music from the ordinary? Find it in math, this lamp, the color of the falling snow?
Try listening.
A little harder.
Here that?
Heartbeat.
Breathing.
I’m here.
I exist.
I scream loud!
Inside.
I hide.
I fear
That because you cannot hear
I will be reduced to tears.
maybe i’ll log in
and write a short romantic little poem
to satisfy those at home reading
you know, something that will strike deep in your heart
at least for a few seconds
and maybe make you think about your own life
and think “Oh that sounds like me”
or maybe you wish it was you
or maybe its not you at all
Listening, hm? That’s a good one. No, really, it is. I’m not kidding ya here. Hmph. In my days, back in Hong Kong-just kidding Ensenada, oh crap my sixty seconds are about to end so I must hur
What are you listening to?
Nothing.
Oh really.
Really. It’s nothing. It’s a quiet noise.
I’m confused.
Just… forget about it. You can’t hear it if you don’t listen.
What…
Yeah.
What are you listening to?
What is it?
It’s a quiet noise, so quiet it burst the eardrums if you think too much.
It hurts.
It helps.
It makes me go crazy.
Stop listening, then.
How?
I am listening to the valley of the wind. You are listening to the fire in your aching heart. “Listen until you can learn, then move on,” I once was told. I didn’t take the advice. Neither did you.
Sitting at the edge of the water, just listening to the crashing of the waves as the beat in a constant rhythm against the icy shore. I am a part of nature. I feel clear. I’m thinking clearly. This is where I belong.
I can see the words rolling gracefully off your tongue and past your lips. They look like beautiful colors being spilled haphazardly onto the sheer white page. I try with all my might to decipher what it is you’re trying to tell me, but I can’t hear you over the din in my head. I just can’t bring myself to listen to you anymore.
the air falls the same way each year
there is always life
and water rarely fails to run
seasons don’t forget to change
and nature never asks us to “go green”
it stays on triumphantly
listening to narcissistic screams
Listening to the sound of people as they pass me by. Listening to the sound of cars as they speed down the street. What are these people thinking? What are they doing with their lives? I wish I could listen to their thoughts and find out what it is that they think about in their everyday lives. I love to watch people but I wonder what it would be like to listen to them too. I guess some things are never meant to be found out.
It’s not much of a life you’re living, scratching your shambolic thoughts down on scraps of paper and listening to melancholy songs. You are like a feather soaked in cheap wine. So much potential to fly but you are drowning, listless and unbearably soggy. It would be foolhardy to assume these days will amount to anything.
It wasnt working. Her breath was still and it wasnt working. She laid her head on his chest and could hear his heart. The blood pumping through his body, and her, a content listener, waiting for the moment for him to whisper something bigger than love into her ear. She waited, and listened, and it wasnt working.
She was quiet, but I knew she was listening. Her head was bowing down her head to the ground and she was playing with sticks in her hand.
“…and?” she urged me to continue. “What happened?”
I opened my mouth to talk but I froze and there was a moment of silence.
It was as if the change of the wind had turn me into a statue
Sometime I worry that people don’t think I’m a good listener. I spend so much time trying to talk about myself without succeeding. Even in writing this I’ve written about myself. I should start again. I hope people think I’m a good listener.
I am listening. Listening to a man professing his love for me. Words flowing from his mouth painting a picture I can not come to see. I listen but I do not hear. I see what is not heard. But I listen, every day, every second, every hour
Listening. Listening. She never listens. She talks and talks and words spit from her mouth and spill into the air but she never listens.
Mom always said you can hear without listening… I never understood until I met this woman…
Hearing. Hearing. She never even hears.
I would give anything if she would just hear… but if she would listen…
I have worked on my listening over the past few years. I have in the past had habit of interrupting while others were speaking-but why are my thoughts more important than the thoughts of those who I am conversing with?
They told me to listen. They told me she’d come back. But I sit here, twiddling my thumbs, because I’ve never know my hands to feel so alone. They cry for me, I don’t need to.
I wait.
I hear the thundering ocean.
Echoes of grief. My soul mumbles with the fluidity of her voice, it caresses my aching brain.
Listening. Listening. She never listens. She talks and talks and words spit from her mouth and spill into the air but she never listens.
Mom always said you can hear without listening… I never understood until I met this woman…
Hearing. Hearing. She never even hears.
I would give anything if she would just hear… but if she would listen…
Something I think I’m good at , I wish others could hear how I’m listening, I’m there doing more then what they think I’m doing, do I see them do I see what there talking about, do I feel for them? Or am I just making them think I am?
to listen to the teacher talk about the most boring topic ever? Everyday? Not my favorite. i hope this wasn’t part of the plan.
he accused me of not listening to him, but i was. it was just that his words weren’t ringing true to me, and they were falling flat, and they were sinking to the ground, dense with unimportance. he doesn’t understand what’s important to me and what i can cast aside, which is a terrible flaw to have, since all he wants to do is talk talk talk to me and hope that i listen to every single damn word that flows from his mouth. but tomorrow i will tell him that i am not going to do that anymore and he can find somebody else to listen to his crap because i have better words to listen to.
I can hear you singing in my ear as the silence fills the room. If you lsten closely you will hear; otherwise it is just the same of what everyone else hears. Do you really think that you are the only one who wishes to hear or is the same as the words you didn’t hear before?
Is listening good for you? yes it is, apparently, or so they say, listening to the wind, to the people, to the fan to everything around you. Isn’t it hard to keep a straight line moving? how do you wish to be named if you don’t listen you can’t see if you can’t see you can’t feel and if you can’t feel then who are you?
Do you hear the words?
Do you hear the way that they speak to you?
The things they teach you,
the things they know.
Can you tell me what they’re saying?
Can you imagine what they will tell you?
Are you LISTENING?
Are you?
i have a hard time listening to people. i feel like i’m more of a talker than anything. i wish i had a little bit more skill in the ‘listening’ department. maybe i’ll try and work on it sometime….. maybe not. i talk too much. lol.
To music, every word burning. The lyrics speak my truth, as if Bob Dylan or Joni Mitchell were here in my living room, narating my life. Feeling every note in my toes. As if they were written for me in this moment.
“I’m listening to you.” That’s what he said. Is it bad that I don’t believe him? I really want to. But I know better. He never listens to me. Nobody listens to me. I guess that’s my fault. I never say anything worth listening to. I don’t even want to listen to myself sometimes. I guess it’s not his fault. But why does he have to lie about it?
The words flow unceasingly from my lips, but they never reach the ear of my listener. They always fall short and hit the ground. I try to propel them forward in hopes that someone may hear and understand. But all attempts are useless, and every single one of them fails. No one cares, no one hears, no one is listening.
People always point out a difference between listening and hearing, with listening usually meaning actually understanding or concentrating. But does it really matter? No, because I can listen to you and still not care what you say.
The most beautiful sense. The most delightful and delicate. it sounds of just closing your eyes and blocking the world outside. listening to the sounds of waves and the way they crash on rocks and oh so lightly onto your face. Listen, can you hear the sounds of the world all around you?
Did it strike you to the core like it did me? Did it leave you lying alone listening to the pathetic drumming of your heart beat? I want to grab you and weave myself through the blacks of your eyes in hopes of becoming a little more than a stain on your favorite t-shirt, I won’t speak, only listen, sit, listening, to neurons connecting and shooting signals to your gracious body, because to love something you must know it from the inside, so here I sit, quietly listening to that symphony of a heartbeat and the quiet clicks of a spark that is igniting at the hips every time they crash together, I am here, within your head, tucked quietly in the back as you love a girl from the outside and I love you from within and even outward and even beyond and beyond.
Listening to music, but only following the words that run in circles through my head over and over. I’m glad for the time that we get, he said. What exactly does that mean for us, here and now? I’m so lost.
I was listening to her speak and I swear I was soaking it all in like an empty sponge waiting to be filled with something other than this empty space. I was not only listening to her voice but what she really meant and what she was trying to depict. When you really listen, you can fall in love.
i am listening to the silence. it’s loud and clear. or muffled—and more cluttering than noise. it is noise. i am listening for whats found in the silence. me. thoughts. feelings. core. honesty. life. insecurities. love. spaces. i am listening for whatever’s there.
The shouting grew louder. The child was crying. So were the parents. But it didn’t stop the shouting, the outpouring of all the hate, regret, and neglect that accumulates over the course of a relationship.
The couple in the apartment above were profoundly uncomfortable. The woman was debating calling the police before a gunshot punctuated the dissonant noise with silence. Her wife had a different idea. She knew that some things shouldn’t be seen, they must be witnessed. Some things shouldn’t just be heard, they must be listened to.
hear respond listen think
hear respond listen think follow instrucsons
I’m listening to a song. Music made from cups. It’s quite an interesting concept – music from the ordinary. How would I make music from the ordinary? Find it in math, this lamp, the color of the falling snow?
Try listening.
A little harder.
Here that?
Heartbeat.
Breathing.
I’m here.
I exist.
I scream loud!
Inside.
I hide.
I fear
That because you cannot hear
I will be reduced to tears.
Listen.
maybe i’ll log in
and write a short romantic little poem
to satisfy those at home reading
you know, something that will strike deep in your heart
at least for a few seconds
and maybe make you think about your own life
and think “Oh that sounds like me”
or maybe you wish it was you
or maybe its not you at all
Listening, hm? That’s a good one. No, really, it is. I’m not kidding ya here. Hmph. In my days, back in Hong Kong-just kidding Ensenada, oh crap my sixty seconds are about to end so I must hur
What are you listening to?
Nothing.
Oh really.
Really. It’s nothing. It’s a quiet noise.
I’m confused.
Just… forget about it. You can’t hear it if you don’t listen.
What…
Yeah.
is important. never forget that. jesus loves y’all
What are you listening to?
What is it?
It’s a quiet noise, so quiet it burst the eardrums if you think too much.
It hurts.
It helps.
It makes me go crazy.
Stop listening, then.
How?
I am listening to the valley of the wind. You are listening to the fire in your aching heart. “Listen until you can learn, then move on,” I once was told. I didn’t take the advice. Neither did you.
Sitting at the edge of the water, just listening to the crashing of the waves as the beat in a constant rhythm against the icy shore. I am a part of nature. I feel clear. I’m thinking clearly. This is where I belong.
I can see the words rolling gracefully off your tongue and past your lips. They look like beautiful colors being spilled haphazardly onto the sheer white page. I try with all my might to decipher what it is you’re trying to tell me, but I can’t hear you over the din in my head. I just can’t bring myself to listen to you anymore.
the air falls the same way each year
there is always life
and water rarely fails to run
seasons don’t forget to change
and nature never asks us to “go green”
it stays on triumphantly
listening to narcissistic screams
Listening to the sound of people as they pass me by. Listening to the sound of cars as they speed down the street. What are these people thinking? What are they doing with their lives? I wish I could listen to their thoughts and find out what it is that they think about in their everyday lives. I love to watch people but I wonder what it would be like to listen to them too. I guess some things are never meant to be found out.