my masterpiece
is a symphony on deaf ears
my opus
it the wasteland of years
that i call my life
attempted to fill with meaning
but life, like all else
just leaves me dreaming
dreaming these dreams
for which there is no cure
futile, is seems
for this balance unsure.
am i here?
are these words mine?
is my masterpiece
nothing but stolen lines?
looking through my window
the moon comes shining through
it is but all that has inspired,
all the night gives me is the same words to you.
my orchestra is tuning up
for my grand finale debut
as the first string is touched
you know it's nothing new.
all of the pain you've heard
all the angst vented before
these few select words
are all i write anymore.
my life is how i write
one hit here, ten missed there
another word of spite
another word of how no one cares.
i hardly consider myself a maestro
but with luck, i sculpt few lucky words
and for a day, i'm michaelangelo
a thought of that now, would seem absurd.
i've lost my gift i feel
some of the words that i earlier wrote
were the best i've ever had-
they should have been my symphony's last note
instead, i write on
though a chorus few will ever hear
and even fewer there
who will still care...
futility was once my inspiration
because of the feelings it induced
futility led me to depression
and made some of the finest words i've ever produced-
but now it's gone
my words have grown tired
now i get glimpses of depression
but nothing it inspired.
my masterpiece
has gone silent.

06/29/2002

Posted on 06/29/2002
Copyright © 2024 Andrew S Adams