THE
VIOLENCE OF MUSIC
I
don't want to die
by the hands of music.
The urgent, violent
broken caress.
Leading me by an invisible chain,
forcing me down to my bleeding knees.
Tears in my eyes
as the noise washes over.
Passion and ecstasy
drowning me,
drowning me!
Pushed onto my back
by the sound.
I don't want to die
by the hands of music;
holding tightly to its pulsing guitar.
Paneled in black
with flashes of red,
coaxing its quiet demands.
Creeping around me,
resting in my ears.
Can't push it away,
don't know how to try.
My mind is in ribbons,
black and red ribbons.
Shredded to ribbons
by an electric guitar.
I don't want to die
by the voice of music.
Today, it's harsh,
inviting me in.
The words are like razor wires,
lashing my skin.
Can't tell it to stop.
Don't remember the words.
My heart is pounding,
racing the beat.
My skin is on fire,
burning petals of roses.
I have a thorn
caught in my side,
twisting deeper
and deeper
and I won't take it out.
I don't want to die
by the voice of music.
That's a choice
that isn't mine.
Bright
Eyed Naïve
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