My drumsticks are broken,
my palms are calloused,
my fingers, provoking
melodies and malice,
pushing away sounds
I struggle to hear
because every note
leads me further from here.
The art of getting closer
to things I may feel
involves pushing away
everything that’s real,
like the piano,
the drums,
the pen,
the runs.
My hands and feet
are where passion goes numb.
As I bleed,
they scream:
‘Dear agony,
stop choking me
so damn tightly,’
yet I still play tragically,
hoping something
might frighten me,
instead of fighting to leave.
I try to hold on,
hoping something might stay,
but more I constrict,
the more it all slips away.
From pen to page,
from gulps to sips,
it all begins to die
the closer I get.
Part of me wishes
that when I beat the drum
it beats me back.
Part of me wishes
that when I strike a chord
it stays flat.
Part of me wishes
that when I scar the page
my scars erase.
All of me wishes
that when I close in on love
no pain awaits.
But as nice a wish
as it would be
to come true,
it’s never the case
for as long as I
push through.