Whenever I am angry or alone,
Whenever I feel trapped in my own home,
At the strike of twelve or at sunrise,
I sit down and finally open my eyes.
With a crowd or with the curtain drawn,
I sit down and sew up what has been torn.
My fingers are the needles,
Keys are my thread.
The peddle keeps the pace,
While the melody awakens the dead.
The harder life is the better I play,
The longer I've lived the longer I stay.
The music is my escape from reality
But only at the outro do I accept finality.
For mood tranquillisers and pills
Cannot solve the problems that music can kill.
I may hate myself and the world
But having confidence in the keys makes confidence in myself.
With expectant looks or forgiving applause,
with a crowd or with the curtains drawn,
I start to fix what life has torn.
-holly boyd
YOU ARE READING
Words We Cannot Speak
PoetryPoems; Woe and hope, love and despair Poems mend us, they repair. Broken souls mixed with broken minds, Poems teach us what it is to be alive. They offer thoughts to inspire. They give us hope to aspire, They answer unanswerable questions They offer...
