Melancholy Jazz

There was a bird. 

I remember it tapping on the window seal and it said that it wouldn't stop until I woke up to face the day.

But it was bland. 

The day had this setting with the background being dark. The sky was charcoal and the mood was cold.

Branches. The branches of the tree were waving at me reminding me that the life had motion even when I felt like my heart has stopped. 

This in a form is my life. It has no color yet it is so vivid.

Very quiet, yet the pain was so loud. 

Words are who I am. They are all I have. 

I speak through them and they speak for me when I'm reaching out for a piece of life to grab.

The stories I tell. The rhymes I sell. I was born a poetician. 

Words are meaning and they give meaning too. They're multipurposed for the sake in which I am living.

When I feel choked up. Too choked up to speak, I look outside for fresh air to breathe 

--And there, the bird is still tapping. Surrounded by these lifeless leaves.

Block. For months, I've had the writer's plight. The kind that sends artist into a bad state of psych.

Writer's block is torture to my soul. The soul that is empty and the heart which is heavy. 

Melachony poetry is my midnight jazz. I'm misunderstood and so to everyone, I'm always sad.

My visions are foggy as of late and so I've been frozen for awhile until the fog decays.

I'm transforming into a quiet storm. The kind that makes people fall asleep.

Yet, the body is calm and the thoughts are crazy. The rain is no bother and the thunder doesn't phase me.

I pick up my pen when I feel myself growing lazy. I find ways to clear the smoke when my life seems to be so hazy. 

The bird is now chirping and the singing is staged. The sun has now appeared and the fog has decayed.

I wither out of bed and on my way.

I thank the bird and I face the day.