I call it poetry because I’m scared to sing,
yet I act like I could be music’s next thing.
I can’t read sheet music and I don’t play guitar,
but I can write a story in semblance of a song.
I’d like to compose a beautiful melody,
woven together with lovely stories
and played for people to sing-along
like they’re reliving the memories
euphorically.
I listen to the radio
and I hear the voices of music flow
into my heart and through my veins
swirling my world like a hurricane,
lifting me off my feet and into space,
daydreaming the power of music awake.
It’s not just sounds or voices or notes,
and doesn’t get played without being heard.
It feels and it hurts and you hear the words
that speak to you emotionally when others don’t.
I scream and dance and I sing to romance songs
like I wasn’t crying to Lewis Capaldi the morning long.
As I sit on the school bus or clean my room,
music plays (Harry Styles on queue).
We’re always trying to escape.
Find a distraction to daily woes.
Something to free our shoulders from the weight
of having to live outside fairytales.
