The rhythm.

My back tingles as I pick up a Bass for the first time; in my ears there is the rhythm. I hear no voice yet the feeling in my bones stays true. The tingle of metal on my fingers as I glide my hand along the thickly coiled wire call to me. Piano only plays at the beginning yet guitar comes to tie in. Drums join; I patiently wait my turn. The moment strikes when my fingers should pluck swiftly at the thick metal strings. Yet My fingers fumble and fail to hit the notes. I have failed; shame seeps to my core. Moments pass though feels like years that I stand there quietly; finally I raise my head. The rhythm is still there; it will never leave.

Don't look at the sun.

"Don't look at the sun."
My mom had said.
So instead I look at the moon.
"Don't play in the street".
My dad had said.
So instead I play in the ally.
"Don't hurt yourself."
Is what my parents said.
But their care blinded me from the truth.