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Composition This fear is creeping, clogging my pores. I have to be honest; optimism is not my forte. Entangled in my anxiety crescendo, carried by this melody in minors, and every blow offers a sharp accent staccato where all I longed for were sweet legatos in your lullaby. My bass line is naked and repetitive while drums roll off clich�s in an overused cadence. Rewriting these bars has proven itself the challenge, a composition sorely lacking because I had to skim through life on a treble clef where Every Good Boy Does Fine, but I always doubted that Good Boys Do Fine Always. My soul strums a premature dirge on heartstrings, waiting for the hope to breathe its last. This imbalance has offset my internal weather system, predicting a sunrise amidst these storm clouds, and I have planned my day too perfectly. |