A flick of his baton,
And hate fills the room.
Wafting under the doors
Into bystanders,
And passersby,
Ears.
My father was our conductor.
A sweeping gesture,
So well rehearsed...
And love and admiration,
Make the room quiver with sound.
He held his audience in a grip as hard as a scared child's, he'd perfected every move he made.
The stage is set,
The orchestra is ready to play,
Not for the audience,
For the conductor.
He trained us, his family, as a traveling show
All to boost his needy ego.
He raises his hands,
And the pity raises it's volume.
You can taste the salty,
Bitter melody
On your tongue.
You could almost swallow the tune.
If he couldn't use you in some way, he'd leave you,
Whether you were a friend or his blood.
A sweet undertone of hate,
So easily made,
And so tempting.
Now a brief solo...
And the admiration blasts full,
And loud,
And bright.
He'd use those who loathed him in his orchestra,
Use them to make his admirers defend him.
The conductor,
And his orchestra.
Like the sun and the planets.
The music revolving around him,
His curled moustache,
And retreating hairline.
He was a puppet master, gaining something from any
Attention thrown his way.
Now a solo for the fear,
Clear,
And high.
His hands go down low,
For the base sound of anger.
He was a walking explosion, when he entered the room in our home, it silenced.
Bitterness fills the room,
It's strings
Singing.
And pity again,
Perhaps his favorite instrument.
I hated him for not loving me, and he used my bitterness to hold my sisters closer to him
The conductor,
The abuser,
Conducting all the attention,
Upon himself.
Not any type is unwanted,
All instruments have a place
On his stage.
The only way to escape, was to let him go.
I've dropped my instrument.
Left bitterness on the floor.
The last one I've played,
I've tried my hand at all the others,
But I could never find one
I wanted to keep.
The life of a musician,
Just isn't for me.
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 7:54 PM UTC
A flick of his baton,
And hate fills the room.
Wafting under the doors
Into bystanders,
And passersby,
Ears.
My father was our conductor.
A sweeping gesture,
So well rehearsed...
And love and admiration,
Make the room quiver with sound.
He held his audience in a grip as hard as a scared child's, he'd perfected every move he made.
The stage is set,
The orchestra is ready to play,
Not for the audience,
For the conductor.
He trained us, his family, as a traveling show
All to boost his needy ego.
He raises his hands,
And the pity raises it's volume.
You can taste the salty,
Bitter melody
On your tongue.
You could almost swallow the tune.
If he couldn't use you in some way, he'd leave you,
Whether you were a friend or his blood.
A sweet undertone of hate,
So easily made,
And so tempting.
Now a brief solo...
And the admiration blasts full,
And loud,
And bright.
He'd use those who loathed him in his orchestra,
Use them to make his admirers defend him.
The conductor,
And his orchestra.
Like the sun and the planets.
The music revolving around him,
His curled moustache,
And retreating hairline.
He was a puppet master, gaining something from any
Attention thrown his way.
Now a solo for the fear,
Clear,
And high.
His hands go down low,
For the base sound of anger.
He was a walking explosion, when he entered the room in our home, it silenced.
Bitterness fills the room,
It's strings
Singing.
And pity again,
Perhaps his favorite instrument.
I hated him for not loving me, and he used my bitterness to hold my sisters closer to him
The conductor,
The abuser,
Conducting all the attention,
Upon himself.
Not any type is unwanted,
All instruments have a place
On his stage.
The only way to escape, was to let him go.
I've dropped my instrument.
Left bitterness on the floor.
The last one I've played,
I've tried my hand at all the others,
But I could never find one
I wanted to keep.
The life of a musician,
Just isn't for me.
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