When my rhythm is gone I wait for it,
It cannot be rushed or forced or pushed into existence.
When my beat is gone, I wait for it.
It cannot be found and boxed in.
When my lyrics disappear, I wait for it.
You cannot just write lyrics,
you have to wait for them to write themselves.
You wait for them to come to you.
The words will come when you really need them,
For words, beautiful words, are borne out of sadness and despair.
Hard times inspire the truest words.
So when I cannot find them, the rhythm, the beat, the lyrics,
When I forget my song.
I wait for it to come.
I know it will come.
It may not be in an extravagant spectacle,
It may not be in flashing lights
So times the words come in the form of a flower in a meadow
Or a friend's voice at night.
The song is not loud and blaring,
It has a soft voice that soothes you to sleep. And when you wake up in the warm light of the young sun, you remember. It all comes back. And your fire, in kindled once again to make the music you long to create. Whether it me in words, or paintings, or symphonies arrangement.
The bird always flies back to the place it was borne,
and I have faith mine will come back to me.
SK
