Want to write my thoughts down
In a clever, beautiful way.
Poetry should be graceful.
But creation is not a guarantee.
And it shouldn't be limited to wit and ease.
Who's to say where true beauty lies-
Behind the eyes of a soulmate,
Or maybe just in a forgotten smile on a sad lonely face.
There are just so many words,
And infinite possibilities.
Need to create to keep it real.
Because, who's to say what's real?
How can we even know if anything is ever original?
That's why I have to make art-
Just to prove to at least myself that there IS something
Throughout this void of oblivion that beckons truth.
And that truth- that real art-
That's music.
My music.
I am music.
Everything- if anything exists, is only pure music.
And that's all I can bet on,
When the chips are down.
I will be singing until my last breath ceases.
And music is the only real beauty that can save my soul,
Bring me peace, and
Carry me home.