The Virtuoso
I'm the virtuoso of a dying art,
but if I don't sing, I might just lose my mind,
pouring words, passionately onto blank pages,
uttering syllables, unheard through the ages,
I keep a pen in my pocket but not one penny,
singing symphonies of silent songs,
to hold down and drown my cacophony of thoughts,
bubbles that rise to the surface, circling my mind,
spilling ink, chaotically, onto crumpled paper,
holding my breath, watching words dance on each line
forming deep sentences, that need not be phrased aloud,
breathing in, until I finally exhale again
and close my eyes.