Orchestrated








Orchestrated instrument stories
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Autoplay OFF   •   6 months ago
This is a poem I wrote in response to the fact that education should be safe, based on school shootings. Thank you for reading. :) <3

Orchestrated

This is inspired by school shootings and acts of terror taking place in schools. I once heard a phrase and it was something along the lines of 'I will educate my enemy's children.' What it means is that acts of terror in schools sometimes suggests that people are trying to stop education taking place.

Educating their enemy's children means that they are doing exactly what the enemy doesn't want. Anyway, I hope(?) that makes sense. I just wanted to show the inspiration behind this piece. :) <3

The problem is that

The problem is that we have the opportunity, we can

The problem is that we have the opportunity, we can sift through the black and white

The problem is that we have the opportunity, we can sift through the black and white whilst dodging the red,

The problem is that we have the opportunity, we can sift through the black and white whilst dodging the red, defying the shadow of our uniform.

However,

However, to stand on the front-line so

However, to stand on the front-line so ink trickles down,

However, to stand on the front-line so ink trickles down, gaping holes of shot oblivion,

However, to stand on the front-line so ink trickles down, gaping holes of shot oblivion, as a final kiss to the temple

However, to stand on the front-line so ink trickles down, gaping holes of shot oblivion, as a final kiss to the temple that failed to save us,

However, to stand on the front-line so ink trickles down, gaping holes of shot oblivion, as a final kiss to the temple that failed to save us, and a mother's cry, pealing

However, to stand on the front-line so ink trickles down, gaping holes of shot oblivion, as a final kiss to the temple that failed to save us, and a mother's cry, pealing through stifling screeches

However, to stand on the front-line so ink trickles down, gaping holes of shot oblivion, as a final kiss to the temple that failed to save us, and a mother's cry, pealing through stifling screeches of bullets dragging the floor;

However, to stand on the front-line so ink trickles down, gaping holes of shot oblivion, as a final kiss to the temple that failed to save us, and a mother's cry, pealing through stifling screeches of bullets dragging the floor; I suppose, our new school bell.

They've raided our music room,

They've raided our music room, a call to band,

They've raided our music room, a call to band, we all stand,

They've raided our music room, a call to band, we all stand, there's a humming beat

They've raided our music room, a call to band, we all stand, there's a humming beat of a lesson of warfare,

They've raided our music room, a call to band, we all stand, there's a humming beat of a lesson of warfare, a far shout

They've raided our music room, a call to band, we all stand, there's a humming beat of a lesson of warfare, a far shout from days lazing under

They've raided our music room, a call to band, we all stand, there's a humming beat of a lesson of warfare, a far shout from days lazing under a kindly deity,

They've raided our music room, a call to band, we all stand, there's a humming beat of a lesson of warfare, a far shout from days lazing under a kindly deity, our hands full of trampled flowers,

They've raided our music room, a call to band, we all stand, there's a humming beat of a lesson of warfare, a far shout from days lazing under a kindly deity, our hands full of trampled flowers, clutching the beauty

They've raided our music room, a call to band, we all stand, there's a humming beat of a lesson of warfare, a far shout from days lazing under a kindly deity, our hands full of trampled flowers, clutching the beauty and casting away the rough.

To the front-line,

To the front-line, now we must go,

To the front-line, now we must go, our schoolbags trailing streaks of rebellion,

To the front-line, now we must go, our schoolbags trailing streaks of rebellion, like our marked graves.

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