Learn more about other poetry terms
Money is impossible as a musician, people say
You came into my life at the point in time When I needed a teacher, Someone to instruct me on fingering and bowing Little did I know how much more you would bring. You saw the talent no one else did,
a l i v e the anticipation sitting on the stage bow in hand but trying to escape
The cello sings me to sleep The saddest, most beautiful voice I've ever heard Notes carefully composed into a tragedy that floats through the room with ease It lulls me into oblivion
Mischa Maisky is plotting my demise, his Solomonic locks mocking me, raindrops on his suit coat. Is that the Sistine Chapel I see?
My name is the syncopated beat Of a dotted eighth note, sixteenth note Rocking like a boat on windy waters My laugh is the swoop of glissando Sometimes a delicate slide
It takes baby steps, I started out crawling at the ground Wanting to be different, so I walked into dozens of Audition rooms to distinguish My playing from others.
The low tones of my cello Resonating through my own chest The harmonic accompany of the orchestra Sixteenth notes and eight notes Whole notes and quarter Half notes with dots And rests in no order
He played me like a cello soft and sweet until the finale. The high notes whined and the low notes dragged on, on, on. The finale was agonizing.
It's my life, my passion, my one true love. My soul, my escape, it's me. I feel it in me, running through me, through my veins and in my blood. It's music. It's my cello.