Oct 2015
Armchairs and whiskey.
Bottle on the side table.
Eyes open wide, unable
to sleep. Thoughts creep
into his shaking skull.
Hands shake and grip the bow.
He pulls his scream across a string,
because his throat won't voice his wearied woe.
The sound's more than just pain,
and it tells more of his aching bones
than it should.
He plays the tears he can't show,
and it's understood
as the instrument moans.
That's all he needs to show a world
that doesn't know what his pain sounds like.
He'd talk about it if he could. Rachmaninov understood.
Bottle on the side table.
Eyes open wide, unable
to sleep. Thoughts creep
into his shaking skull.
Hands shake and grip the bow.
He pulls his scream across a string,
because his throat won't voice his wearied woe.
The sound's more than just pain,
and it tells more of his aching bones
than it should.
He plays the tears he can't show,
and it's understood
as the instrument moans.
That's all he needs to show a world
that doesn't know what his pain sounds like.
He'd talk about it if he could. Rachmaninov understood.
Stoicism is an awful habit of mine. I don't cry; I play.
I know it's cliche and corny and troped to death, but I do. It's how I cope, and sometimes it's good to just tell someone that. So I'm telling the internet, because if we're making confessions go hard or go home, right? Goodnight, HP.
I know it's cliche and corny and troped to death, but I do. It's how I cope, and sometimes it's good to just tell someone that. So I'm telling the internet, because if we're making confessions go hard or go home, right? Goodnight, HP.
