The Troubled Treble

April 24, 2018

As I strummed the major
I had the epiphany,
A path which could relieve me
Of the humdrum cacophony.
Maybe music is the sphere
where I find my special calling,
All the other trails
Seemed rather appalling.

I galloped towards my home
from that of my friend’s,
I was elated beyond limits
Glee seemed to have no ends.
As I stepped into my home
I told my mother,
"Ma, I believe the tussle is over
I’ve chosen music over any other!"

But as I spoke my heart
I was rapped over the knuckles,
Shoved into my room
I sat all puzzled.
Was it considered a felony
to express one’s own mind
I thought of it while listening
to 'Let It Be' on rewind.

But could I really let it be—
my fervour for tones,
Maybe if I pursue it furtively
I wouldn’t have to atone.
So I broke my still bank
retrieved a few thousand buck,
Bought a fine new six string
It was the start of a harmonious epoch.

The breves were played
when my parents would leave,
The rests observed
when they were back home relieved.
Day in, day out,
I broadened my comprehension
little did anyone know
of my ulterior intention.

I started writing melodies,
licks and rhymes
Beams affixed, I played
the tunes a hundred times.
I hummed them
be it during school hours or in a park
It was all done while being reticent
yet as happy as a lark.

But one fine evening while practicing
I was put in dire straits
I was oblivious to
the screech of the gates.
My mom barged into my room
threw me off-guard
I tried to explain it all
but a violent altercation spurred.

My sublime six string
was seized from me,
I carried a lump in my throat
All I could feel was misery.
The next morning I woke up
angst filled me up to the brim
I yearned for my guitar
which could allay me of this grim.

Passion and obsession
All were doused and diminished,
Depression and repression
were the only that flourished.
The spark was always there
Just not as bright,
instead of growing delirious
It grew timider in the night.

All that was desired by me
was one last chance,
To pick the notes
Be it in melancholy or romance.
I guess the world isn’t a stage
where one performs,
But just another conventional place
which shelters countless tormented storms.


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