The Composer

I am 1,248 songs of complicated rhythm. Prose and verses tell a story of my decisions…my indecision. I am skin shaped, in 42 different shades of foolery, a life lover doing my best to avoid an other, but they seem to be everywhere these days. Crawling out from under rocks, or latent in my twisted fantasies. I think I may be terminal with delusional romantacy. A proverbial symphony strung together with sinew and longing. Discordant chords bending into melody when I blink too long or laugh too hard at the wrong moment. I can admit, I have been the composer of songs that I was never meant to play. Still, I finger at the keys, an untuned melody stretched thin across the vastness of possibility, a quiet rebellion whispered in 3am silences, telling truths I didn’t ask to know, but I can’t help but pick up on the tone. I am every note you thought I missed, the calloused fingertips of my mistakes, still strumming, still singing. Harmony may elude me, but the melody is mine to claim. Yes, I am 1,248 songs of messy humanity, and I’ll rewrite the chorus as many times as it takes to finally hear it in my own voice.