Everyone needs water to cleanse their throat and food to fill their stomachs- music is my food. Six years ago I began. And now I strive to be better with each passing day, despite the routine criticism that I encounter- A part of me now. Pit, pat, stamp, stomp- Marching effortlessly across the field, each in perfect rhythm with the other. Next is the drum with its regular thump. Trombones, trumpets, clarinets, each joining in with their own piece, their individual voice. I, too, join- But not as profoundly as the others, I am a soft whisper, and more often than not- No one hears me. Upon my shoulder the brass piece sits-my trusting companion- and eagerly awaits the caress of my lips. In my world, both inside and out, I stand alone and pity myself. My solitary existence and my desire to belong make a lethal pair. The island where I could perservere owns waves of solitude crashing with their own thunder that encompasses my thoughts. What ocne was inviting now is deciding my fate as it's doomed to remain. The burdens my soul carries are like holes in a wall, sometimes repaired by the sound of music- my plaster. For just one day I would like to stand and make the waves subside; to hear my words and understand, instead of being trapped in a sunken ship without a life preserver. I used to have a powerful voice-like the deep but strong sound of my tuba. And I used to get the attention that springs from the voice of cymbals as they crash against one another. But now, the blast of MY sound has become little more than a muffled silence. And a smile would grace my face if I could go the distance, to travel beyond the trumpets.................. and cymbals.................. and drums..................... and amount to one gigantic voice, so that no one could resist my call.
Reason for writing:
Let's just say that it is inspired by someone very close to my heart, who decided to leave his lonesome existence and become the wonderful person that he is today.
Birth sign: Not entered
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