What You've Done
This Cell
Trapped In A Lens
The Pusher
This Day will never be.
Poetry Poem
For The ones I left behind
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The Closet Musician
She sits alone
Strumming her chords
And compiling lyrics
Only to remain unheard;
Crumpled bits of paper
Lie strewn across her floor,
Along with a letter of acceptance
She'd sooner just ignore.
A residue of memories
Occupy her busy mind
Desperately attempting to release themselves
Into ballads of some kind;
Faces of inspiration
Stare back at her
As she plucks her strings in repetition
Creating calluses on every finger.
Others will tell her
She should share her creations
But she'd prefer to keep them in confinement
Such as she does all her frustrations;
At the end of the day
It is only on paper that she will confide;
She sets her guitar down
And locks her thoughts up
Ever so tight
copyright(c02007
Deanna Prall
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The Closet Musician
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