Monday, July 4, 2011


(Pre-Script: This poem has no song to accompany it. Go down to the playlist and turn it off. I'll wait...)(...still waiting...)

I killed the song you were about to sing;

you were just about to start singing, weren't you-

but I did not stop to hear the tune,

the key in which you would build your crescendo

the sharps and flats and rests-

the underlying bass clef keeping rhythm,

the overlapping joy of the treble-

but I did not stop,

some angry marching soldier of me, with the mind of

a soldier on mission-

I did not add my harmony, my counterpoints

my lullaby, even-

I said there is no room no room no room

for the music anymore, chop up

this piano

with an ax, and bleed

on the keys, now black and white

and red all over-

and you were just about to start singing, weren't you.


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