The Violin

My home inside my head is a desert.
Dark and desolate,
My house is full of love,
But I’m cold-blooded and cruel.

May I always be so angry
So the notes always sound so beautiful
Falling underneath my fingertips
Cascading to a waterfall beneath my feet
And ascending to the sky above the clouds.

As I make my way to the violin,
I am the outcast,
The cruel, cold-blooded monster,
I am miserable.

The strings are cold and steely.
Just like my heart.
But unlike my heart,
The strings can be warmed up with use.
I have succumbed to their power.

I sit on my chair and feel my fingers find their place upon the fingerboard,
And I touch the strings with uncertainty,
Like I am washing away a ruined slate.

I whisper my name, and the name of the violin I have created in my mind,
And the first note rings and I am afraid somebody might hear me.
I am afraid to play.
I am afraid to
I am afraid
I
I am
I am playing.
I am playing hard.
And as the notes sound out in the empty room,
I realize I am not a monster,
And I realize I am more than just a person.
I pound hard on the strings,
But the strings are meant to be played.
Chord after chord cascades down my face
And up into the air
And the music soars out like a dove from a sacred place
And I smile,
For the first time in centuries
I smile,
And the universe is in my favor
This time.
I am no longer afraid to play.
I am no longer afraid to sing with my music,
And its voice rings out and I imagine I am in an amphitheater
And my eyes close
And I am still playing
And the music sounds like it is coming from my soul.






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