larynx

Under oaken arms, we can't help but bend and break;
and so here, right now, we fall into hoarseness and frustration,
crying out "we don't want you to like us or know us or even smile when we smile" to the audience
who smile and nod and raise their hands up to us in religion and close
their eyes, blossoming with emotion.
We hold ourselves in our lies, pressing them with fervored fingers
into our aching diaphragm, incisions slicing our breath in two from our
four-chambered pulse to the aorta: clean cut and cold in the winter.
Words escaped through the piercings, crying out, "holyholyholy",
with our tongue held to our teeth, bloody. (we drank for hydration's sake)

Spreading our voice upwind into the orchard hill, our fingers reach for
tentative notes in the air, and we can barely hear ourself--
we hope that here, no one else will listen, even though we've always
wanted a voice more than anything else. The wind keeps us silent though,
quieter than we thought we could be, and we choke on our muffled words,
wavering out of harmony with tears in the notes--
the wind pulls at our skin, plucking chords back to pitch,
back up to strong soprano and back down to buzzing bass, and we
squirm uncomfortably in the lines of the measures...
and then I sing for myself, triangle mouthed and sweating, and I cry:

TREMBLE, larynx. Tremble, ubiquitous and self conscious,
cause I've always wanted a syrinx to sing, wordless and crying and glorious. Tremble,
and know that I do not know you, and I do not want you, and you are not a part of me.
Tremble, and know what loneliness and silence tastes like.

Wow.. is all I can say to this.. simply wow...

Dearest Greek enthusiast, allow me to praise you!

You have accomplished quite a work here, darling, and that is mostly what I wish to say to you! This is the best piece I've read on this site so far, and it pleases me to no end to see this exhibition of talent. My only quip--the only thing I would beg you to improve is to perhaps become more creative with your line breaks: they're a tad bit predictable after a while. But darling, you are wonderful, and have earned yourself a follower!

-Karma

Finally got to this. Okay.

Under oaken arms, we can't help but bend and break;
and so here, right now, we fall into hoarseness and frustration,
crying out "we don't want you to like us or know us or even smile when we smile" to the audience
who smile and nod and raise their hands up to us in religion and close
their eyes, blossoming with emotion.
We hold ourselves in our lies, pressing them with fervored fingers
into our aching diaphragm, incisions slicing our breath in two from our
four-chambered pulse to the aorta: clean cut and cold in the winter.
Words escaped through the piercings, crying out, "holyholyholy",
with our tongue held to our teeth, bloody. (we drank for hydration's sake)

Even now, I am quite impressed. Your sense of rhythm is next to perfect, though, as KarmaWave (*coughlumicough*) pointed out, the line breaks can become a bit predictable. That is hardly a nuisance, though. In addition to the rhythm, your imagery is beautiful. I really am impressed. The only thing I would suggest changing would be the third and fourth lines. In the third line, the bit within the quotation marks sounds odd, for two reasons. One, these things tend to be more effective when not placed right at the beginning of a poem, and two, its phrasing could be better. In the fourth line, I'm not sure "religion" is too beneficial towards the flow.

Spreading our voice upwind into the orchard hill, our fingers reach for
tentative notes in the air, and we can barely hear ourself--
we hope that here, no one else will listen, even though we've always
wanted a voice more than anything else. The wind keeps us silent though,
quieter than we thought we could be, and we choke on our muffled words,
wavering out of harmony with tears in the notes--
the wind pulls at our skin, plucking chords back to pitch,
back up to strong soprano and back down to buzzing bass, and we
squirm uncomfortably in the lines of the measures...
and then I sing for myself, triangle mouthed and sweating, and I cry:

Not quite as resplendent as the first stanza, but still excellent. I don't have anything new as far as praise (nothing you haven't heard before, that is), but I think I still have a few quibbles I might like to inflict upon you. I'm not sure what happened to that amazing flow you had developed earlier. It may be because you were attempting to pick up the pace a bit, precipitate some agitation, but, honestly, I'd stick to the calmer rhythm: it seems you are able to illustrate your ideas more efficaciously this way. This also means sticking more within the confinements of grammar. Flouting English's constraints is never a bad thing in poetry, but I do think that, here, it serves as a detriment.

TREMBLE, larynx. Tremble, ubiquitous and self conscious,
cause I've always wanted a syrinx to sing, wordless and crying and glorious. Tremble,
and know that I do not know you, and I do not want you, and you are not a part of me.
Tremble, and know what loneliness and silence tastes like.

Very, very nice. I'm glad you picked things up after the second stanza. Truly a remarkable finish. The only thing I think might best be changed is the very last line: that final clause seems quite out of place. Once again, splendid work.

Hope this helped.

-Kafka