My heart is just an instrument trying to find a muse
Created from one half calabash one half emotionally abused
My music infused with passion but to cover up the pain,
I cut ten strings so that only those most suited for sounds of struggle and revolution remained
Looking back on the broken strands I am sure each has a story of some sobering reality that frayed its hope
But right now, and for some time I have been unable to play the most maudlin and quixotic sopranic notes
For my soul is just a bass clef trying to find the treble
Conscious of the upper scales but lacking the solitary fortitude to attain those levels
Recounting the futility of those who expected the lachrymose strumming of heartfelt ballads without first divining the wisdom to mend the strings
Is it abject to imagine that one with the prerequisite open heart and healing hands would understand what all this means?
Even while delving in the most melancholy of melodies my composition is incomplete
My faithful, unwavering but unaccompanied ostinato longs for unpredictable and uninhibited biriminting as I search the world for one with proper technique….
Hannibal Ad Portas!