My father is the music.
My hearts rhythm a show of puppetry.
A creation of passion, constructed solitude,
Packing my world with repeated withering words
In which meaningless love wanders, until it is
Personal.
Too high, too drunk, too moved by music,
That ****** harmonica, guitar, microphone, even spoons
These utensils too forgetful to notice,
Other senses,
What past notes have created.
You are a monster music, that calms
And rages, carves out playgrounds of feeling.
Music sculpts everything, it defines me.
Yet, if it is truly bad, off key, or sharp,
Nothing sung, written, or played
Can bring the sound of stories solace.