Life is a Song

My Life is a song sung in a series of repetitive inferior notes. I’m unable to record mellow melodies, as my violin strings continually play with reckless violet villains. As I sit and replay recitals of bleeding love harmonies. My soul is shattered and sunken in silent sonnets. I'm flickering through the tears of tainted years of hexagon heartbreaks. Unable to trust poetic phrases from a cedar conductor whose musical agility makes my saxophone eyes sing. I conceal my sunrise hope in a chaotic chorus of anguish; which I play to my sympathetic amber anxiety, to justify the lonesome path I’ve chosen to hike. I fail to embrace the serenity of their light rap rhymes in my erratic brain. Instead, I reminisce about my sorrowful pity puddle spells, when countless deceptive trumpets stole my musical directives destined for classical charts. I am forsaken in operas of maroon misery serenaded by these weeping, wailing windpipes. I desire to awaken my ancient pop culture life. The sangria sunrise era when only rainbow hits escaped my pen. I recall I wrote reams of rhythmic sheets; filled with halo heroes, painting electrical euphoria upon Harvard's crisp horizons. A time when youthful bands sang of everlasting devotion, glowing glee upon my ebony core. My fuschia feet are wounded and depleted from my frequent falls in my ballet of ruby romances. I aspire to dance to all the Jazz freedom beats and not break-dance with soprano snakes. As I’ve detected, they are thirsty for my rhythmic rays for their applause and accolades to reign. Now is the time for my piano to recreate my platinum diamond hits. For my lyrical pieces to thrive, I must retire my historical woes to the rear of my Broadway sympathy show. I accept this is the only way to win my desired Tony prize.