Music Is Addictive
Poem
Musicians thrive on the pulse of their own heartbeats,
strumming their sorrow into chords,
searching for the saddest notes
to compose symphonies that tear the sky apart.
I attended a violinist’s wake last week.
She drowned in her own melodies,
the autopsy revealed the strings of her bow
wrapped around her lungs,
squeezing out her last breath in minor keys.
All that was left were her fingertips.
Calluses take longer to fade.
I ran my hand over her piano,
the leftover chords from her silence
slipped beneath my skin,
burrowing into my veins, craving a new pulse.
Dead or alive,
musicians hear each other.
I see they’ve been starving.
I feed them sound.
Music is addictive,
amplifying what they inhaled
from their former muse.
I see graveyards instead of concerts,
heavy rain drowning out the beat,
smiles turning into sobs.
My guitar weeps tears of grief,
loneliness and longing.
So tonight I compose my requiem.
I want my music to echo
in the halls of abandoned cities, empty homes, and broken hearts.
It will either heal you or shatter you.
Donate my vinyls to the ruins of theaters.
You’ll hear the ghosts of a thousand notes, spiraling in the wind,
the echoes of musicians who plucked their souls
to leave an imprint on the silence of time.
Beware of music.
Too much of it will carry you
into a world you can’t escape,
too little of it will leave you
aching to come back for more.
