Speaking words as soft as whispers,
Hoping to be seen by the outside world.
Bringing out the you from your shell,
Breaking your walls to millimeter shards.
A diary whose ink is made of oxygen.
To pour out your aching heart
into the smooth curves of material.
But only few who play the music
with a loving heart would understand.
Without music, your personal diary would rust,
Feeling forgotten and useless;
People would grow old,
Just waiting, to hear that song just one more time,
To be able to feel their
whole being shiver from the vibrations,
Almost touching the notes.
To be swayed as they had before.
We need music to survive,
Along with the eternal, almost tangible,
Sound of Music.