Nothing I do right now means anything to me
Or to anyone else, for that matter.
I'm not making art, I'm repeating the art of others on
Out-of-tune pianos while real musicians sit around me
Casually improvising jazz, as if it were child's play.
My days are numbered and I intend to count every single one of them.
Searching for a reason to avoid going home, I take back roads and scenic routes
Hoping it will bring me closer to the person I had meant to become
All those years ago when I first sped down them
On nights when coffee and nicotine were all I needed.
These days I find myself stagnated in traffic jam thoughts and I can't get myself thinking clearly
When the open window brings not the fresh air I had expected
But the smog of misery that hangs around this filthy city.
This isn't the right format for all the rage I have to give the world.
My days are numbered and I intend to make every single one of them count.
But I just don't see how I could manage it.
My hands are too small to carry all of these expectations
And too slow to carry three melodies at once
I set my sights higher than I can climb in the hopes I would rise to the challenge
But I just can't keep time when it's sextuplets against sixteenth notes
How am I supposed to amount to anything if I can't accomplish everything?
Elizabeth, it's hard trying to keep all those balls in the air. It's ok to let them fall and only hold on to the ones you can manage. Down the road when things get easier it's ok to take on more. This was a very hard write to read, I felt your pain and your overwhelmed feelings. Take care-hugs.
I just love the imagery you've conjured here Elizabeth.
" I take back roads and scenic routes
Hoping it will bring me closer to the person I had meant to become"
This really got me ... like a physical blow. Brilliant! :-) x