Plastic keyboards,

wooden guitars,

dancing on my grandma’s patio

to the batacha from El Son.

Swaying and shifting our hips 

to the rhymes that play.

The music brightens our spirits.

Brings us together like a bouquet of flowers.

When I am alone 

I can always count on you.

Like a hidden friend

everyone shares.

But no one loves you as much as I do.

You have become not a hobby but a dream.

A hidden aspiration, 

a hidden hope,

of performing under the bright lights.

To express my thoughts with others through you.

To let others know 

that no matter how dark it may seem now 

it will all get better.

The countless hours that I spend

pressing the same keys,

singing the same songs,

perfecting the same techniques.

No matter how many nights I spend with you 

it never feels like enough.