Ink and Pen ~ A Collection of Poems

Symphony of the Mind

     Music has always been the love of his life. He paid no mind to genre or artist, to generation or popularity. He'd simply let the ebbing waves of sound slip into his ear and flow right into his heart; every chord embracing this life-giving vessel, warming the very core of his soul. Music, to him, was an art. He saw beauty in the delicate weaving of each note and measure, in the movement of keys and copper strings. He was allured by how a lyricist's mind and heart could bleed out onto ink and bring the realms of literature and music into harmonious matrimony, and how one's mere vocal chords could utter the lasting vows of this melodic union for all the world to hear 'till it touches one soul and births a new melody once again.

     No minute was not the right time to lose himself to the crashing waves of sound. Every grain in his hourglass was a singular beat, fluidly spilling into tune to the very last speck; ready to be flipped and started once more. Passion has always been him and his pristine ivories, his fingers dancing and gliding along black and white; a grandiose performance for none other to witness.

     He loved music for it allowed him to be the purest version of himself; as if a crease vanished with every note he played. He loved music for it served as his tongue when he could not find the words, and his eyes when he would not dare to look. He loved music for it surrounded him; building walls made of staffs, rests, and trebles. He loved it for it let him stay in a solemn Grave whilst the rest of the world revolved in a fierce Allegro.

     He loved it for remaining constant in his own sea of uncertainties.

     He yearned for it as it was his only escape.

     He craved for it; being the only thing he wanted to hear and nothing else.

     He begged music to silence the thundering fortissimo in his mind.

He needed music.

     He needed music for one simple thing - to drown out his very own orchestra; an orchestra devoid of a conductor, missing one if not all their sheets.

     Their melody was far from the music he knew and loved. They knew no boundaries to their volume, no right bit of tune, no timing to their beat, and no limit to their speed. They were the epitome of chaos, as if he were stuck in the very middle of this hellish symphony and every instrument were played inside his own eardrums.

     He needed music to cloud the deafening clash of the cymbals and drums, to soothe the ache from the thinnest, sharpest noise of that piercing high note, to shield him from the thundering roars of a million trumpets and shroud him from the mountainous cries of the large, brass, gong.

     He was trapped in a broken metronome, forced to listen and watch as this orchestra of voices, thoughts, memories, faces, tears, cries, and demons circled him; waiting for a single second of quiet from his walls of beautiful music, waiting for a single second to attack.

     Let's face it, he didn't love music, he needed it.

     Because without it, he'd have drowned long ago in the darkest entrails of the very thing keeping him alive today.