Words and music notes.

That’s who I am


there is deafening

sil- .

A bundle of chords and emotions,

knots of words and thoughts

ending in a long pause . . . at rest.

Ironic that they make me feel weary,

not well-rested.

If you could read my mind, would you flee?

If you could feel what I feel, would you run?

They’re all there–all the sorrow and cloudy days and anxiety-ransacked nerves and weariness and insecurities and questions and pain.

If you could feel them all battling, would you get lost in the chaos of sword fights and the echoing cries of dying men?

I hear this, see this, feel this everyday, sense the words and thoughts and emotions and melodies tumble up into a symphony or poetry, and

it all rises, rises, rises, and Maya Angelou would be proud, but still

it falls.

Sil- .

And I’m left staring at swords protruding from the gore of bloodied backs as the echoes of death cries have long faded, beckoning nothingness in its wake.

This is what it’s like . . . to have words as a writer and melodies as a musician but be trapped in the never-ending war scene of your own creativity.

If you saw me here, standing among the ruins of my creativity . . . would you flee from the sword strapped along my own back?

Or would you perhaps stand there, astounded at the creativity diminished by the adept skill of my own hand?

I would.

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