The music of life it flows,
In every heavy breath,
And every low blow,
It sings in high falsettos
I cry,
I rage,
I hold myself and try to sallow
That I have no control
Over how the concert unfolds;
The screams,
And beats
of feet on the ground,
And everyone marches
Or simply falls down;
Sorrows aren’t arrows,
We’re not bows,
Yet taut we are
And deal out our blows;
If I let go
It hurts another,
But year in and year out
I end up pulling the string,
And then I hear someone sing
“What an up strung girl”
The chorus of the cacophony,
Then the ****** of the dischord,
An arrow singes through the atmosphere.