Echo

The missing of music as a form of self-expression.

There is music in my head
The source unseen,
I can't quite place it.
But the growing thoughts,
They play my heart strings as a lyre;
Colors wrapping my mind
Blankets to an anxious kind
It tugs me every time.
But I am far, far out of place.
Can't you just turn your head?
Can you hear me screaming
In a primal desperation
Look
I'm one of you
If only I could prove it.
I'm caged,
Dying perhaps, I know.
If I could, I'd be there.
But I have no mode, no rhythm
Anywhere.
I'm wasting away;
Each facet, finely tuned,
A shell of what had been,
A mere echo
In an empty chamber.