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There is going to come a time,
where life will drag you down.
You can't sleep,
can't eat,
can't live peacefully,
without dying on the inside.
So how do we all cope.

We write.

I know how difficult
it can be to write.
Especially when it's a problem,
that torments us,
and the evil power of our demons,
whether real or imagined,
takes control of our lives
and the next thing we know
is that we're empty
and we need
to write.

But that can't be the only reason,
right?

Who do you write for?
Yourself? Others?
Is it a specific group of people?
Or no one in particular?

What do you write?
Do you write about daily moments?
Or more abstract themes?

When do you write?
Just when you have the time?
In the early hours as dawn breaks?
Or when the darkness settles over the land?

Where do you write?
Outside? In your room?
Anywhere you can?

Why do you write?
Are you searching for hope?
Or just looking for comfort in your own words?
Or in the words of others?

Remember why you write,
and that will keep you going.
I hate my Birthday
expected smiles
and attention, all on me
no solitude
no quiet
there is gifts
and pretend enthusiasm
blow out the candles
and make a wish
eyes, all on me
I hate my Birthday
no wish to celebrate me
my existence is no gift
not for me
Is your sky as beautiful as my sky?
Your moon
an antique blade
slicing into a cobalt belly
that was hung there just for us?

Can you see the stars appear
one by one, calling on each other
to come out and shine
for us?
Are you watching?

Can you hear them singing
their sweet song?
The wind must carry it to you.
They're asking if we want to dance
       (again)
like we did that time
when the moon was swollen
and the stars were playing
across our sky.

Did you forget
on that night
you gave me your heart?
I still hold it
as if
it will come alive.
I sit at a piano
and at the right hand side of the orchestra
or maybe the left
I'm not sure
You sit there too
you sit on your high horse
Mr. 2nd chair
oh i beckon in the good days when
When you play your violin
Like a Stradivarius
And fill the practice room
Like a concert hall.
And i sit and listen
like a desperate girl
mourning the moaning
of cellos
and the loss of a good friend
maybe more.
I still sit on the right side
of the orchestra
with a hollow piece of wood
raised to my neck
where i want you to kiss me
and i drag bow across string
and make noise
and make music.
i refuse to believe
that this was a coincidence
but we are musicians
it's an occupational hazard.
maybe...
I play,
And my world disappears
My surroundings fade
Until there is nothing but my piano
Perfectly echoing my voice without words

I play,
I play to the beat of my heart
Letting it direct me
Letting the music flow through my blood
And through every vain in my body
Until every inch of my body is aching to hear the music
Making me feel alive
Like nothing else can

I play
Because the piano calls me
And we become one
With some broken keys here and there
That produces the perfect imperfect sound
With every key hit and a piano string pulled,
My heartstrings get played in harmony

I play
And the sound engulfs my world
Note by note
Measure by measure
Piece by piece

I play
On a broken piano
But I have never felt so whole
you've got to find that groovy soft spot
with the space between
and listen and feel
the rhythm is in the spine
it moves ever outward, ebb and flow
now you have the spot.
now you slowly **** the groovy soft spot in the sound
take care to take your time
all in rhythm, with a slow crescendo
the flare will happen by itself.  properly invoked
let the river and sound
overtake and ground you
delivering the messenger
diving into the deep water
and breathing delight
sharing the light
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