Every one on this planet loves their music. The beat, the rhythm, the stories that go along with the song. This poem is just a reflection of that.
Plato once wrote, “music’s a shine, Turns your water into a dark red wine.” Rock, brass, or groove for when you’re down, Or if you’re up; ghetto, blues, jazz, MO town. You wash your soul, bathe to that beat, Walking beside Roxanne, working the street. You soak your mind, submerge in jive, Dance, jump and pulse to The Rolling Stones, live. Your speakers thump out Jack’s White Stripes, With Acca Dac’s “Long way to the Top’s” bag pipes. Your music says what can’t be said, To live a life with rhythm massaging your head.
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