A lonely musician,
playing the sombre violin,
arm stretched but tense,
from the nerves of performing,
hands shake,
but are forced to raise the bow,
and drag it across the strings,
the strings of the instrument.
They sit and they play,
the sombre violin,
arms stretched out,
they attempt to contain the nerves,
but cannot control,
they raise the bow,
and begin to drag it across,
the strings of their instruments.
There is no music to my ears.
How they wish their bow,
was a little bit sharper,
and their strings would gush,
releasing life,
but they ignore.
They continue to play,
their sombre violins.
YOU ARE READING
This book has no name. (Poetry)
PoetryI am not a poet, as you can see, but yeah, here are some poems I have written. Some are a bit depressing I know, but what's more depressing is the fact I can't write a decent poem, am I right? P.S they aren't all about me, okay. Some are, some are...
