Here, nothing but time
On my dirty hands, to no
No avail.
Try as hard I might,
Pour-ing every ounce of
My energy
Into a song,
The only thing I can do for you.
Something is wrong.
Barely a note breaking through.
Hardly a clue.
On my dirty hands, to no
No avail.
Try as hard I might,
Pour-ing every ounce of
My energy
Into a song,
The only thing I can do for you.
Something is wrong.
Barely a note breaking through.
Hardly a clue.
Dry as a well.
Arid as the desert
I seem to be.
When will it end?
We will see
What, you’re asking,
Is there to be concerned
About in this anomaly?
Sure this kind of thing
Happens all the time to
All practitioners of
Rhythmic expression.
Propelling souls into space; flying
Evoking so
Many emotions within,
Out of the din.
But in spite of this,
I will persevere in
My endless quest for
Voice to express
What I feel.
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