then the music feels like
the sounds of the worst night mare
of your worst childhood fevers.
echoes you hate,
and a murderer you would become,
not of those players,
but of yourself.
The worst rain,
the worst color in the air,
suddenly the best things
collect themself into
nothing.
while all the good things evaporate..
silence slowly
is replaced by the
victories of ghosts.
those creatures
who would otherwise be none
existence is your failure.
At the times when you would rather not hear any music,
you would rather swallow your guts
and wait for the preys
to make up their own minds.
and you know it as well
how they smile when they lose,
the ghosts and you,
you are tuned in to such a pitch
that
you become a murderer,
of you
and not of anybody else,
at the times when you would rather not hear any music.
celine charcoal
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-times-when-you-would-rather-not-hear-any-mus/
