I've been meaning to get back into writing poetry. I'm not sure whether it's a good thing or a bad thing yet. This obviously needs some work, which is why I'm posting it here! (I'm not sure about the ending, some aspects of the rhyme scheme and a few other things).
Go ahead, rip it to shreds. I'll be happy to slink back to Other Fiction.
----
Silence envelopes the music,
reminiscent of fading years;
because melodies can't make a tune,
if you aren’t around to hear.
The music doesn’t sound so sweet
when nobody is playing;
I can’t sing the words right,
I don't know what they're conveying.
I can’t string together words,
if the lyrics are going to be left
as abandoned words scattered in the air,
hanging by a thread, bereft.
Melodies aren’t beautiful,
if they're played on broken strings;
so why does my heart still skip a beat,
whenever I hear you sing?
~Amy


