cutting out my instruments
the strings attached go by the wayside.
the symphony in tune,
the beats just right.
all of this for not;
all of this i got.
then, thrown away.
this tchaikofsky. this rachmaninoff.

it's a shredded, crumpled sheet
the things they wrote
dismissed before the first beat
dismissed before the first note.
my perfect vision
my perfect sound.
my perfect world-
perfection crushed up, laying dormant on the ground.

and why would i dispose
of all previously composed?
the answers come
from the emptiness the tune has left.
you hear the beauty and sigh-
i hear it and i go deaf.
this is all i can never be.
this is what i aspire to write
this is what i desire at night.
this wonderful, unnatainable beauty.

02/10/2003

Posted on 02/10/2003
Copyright © 2025 Andrew S Adams