Forethought• Show poetry

"If music be the fruit of love ...
... then play on ... "

-Shakespeare

Poetry is the music those who are tone-deaf use to express their souls.
I would know. I would be one of them.
Any music we listen to started as poetry; the sheer expression of the feelings locked deep inside the artists we treasure.
The lyrics of those who can hit notes, however, are my muses, far better than any Grecian spirit ...

AFI, Alesana, Balqk Audio, Echoes of Eternity, Evanescence, Eyes Set to Kill, HIM, Kamelot, Lacuna Coil, Leaves' Eyes, Mortal Love, Nightwish, Satyrian, Tarja, Tristania, Within Temptation

(And it doesn't hurt that these bands are amazing).

And some specifics:
"Paperthin Hymn" - Anberlin
"Illusionate" - Beseech
"Fiction City" - Beseech
"We Are Always Searching" - I Am Ghost
"This is Home" - I Am Ghost
"Starlight" - Freedom Call

But I haven't heard any other songs form these bands, so they may be added to my other list soon.

Some of my favorite poems of all time ...
http://quotations.about.com/cs/poemlyrics/a/Ode_To_A_Nighti.htm
Ode to a Nightingale - John Keats

At Last She Comes - Robert Louis Stevenson

http://quotations.about.com/cs/poemlyrics/a/At_Last_She_Com.htm

And one of my favorite passages, from "Macbeth" by William Shakespeare, From Act II

Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle towads my hand? Come, let me clutch
thee.
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight? Or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a false creation
Proceeding from the heat-oppressèd brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw [He draws his dagger.]
Thou marshal'st me the way I was going,
And such an instrument I was to use
Mine eyes are made the fools o' th' other senses
Or else worth all the rest. I see thee still,
And, on thy blade and dudgeon, gouts of blood
Which was not so before. There's no such thing.
It is the bloody business which informs
Thus to mine eyes. Now o'er the one-half world
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtained sleep. Witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate's off'rings, and withered murder,
Alarumed by his sentinel, the wolf,
Whose howl's his watch, thus with his steady pace
With Tarquin's ravishing strides towards his
design
Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth,
Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear
Thy very stones prate of my whereabouts
And take the present horror from the time,
Which now suits with it. While I threat, he lives.
Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.

And The Raven, by Edgar Allen Poe (of course ... ^_^)
http://quotations.about.com/cs/poemlyrics/a/The_Raven.htm

If you are only going to read one poem of mine, please read "Mottled Skylight" and "Némò"; I'm kinda proud of those.

And, to any friends who visit this page ...
I am not telling who I am talking about in "Once". Or any others, for that matter.

Though I'm pretty sure you all know anyway.