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.