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Strings, Keys, Picks, Pleas
Much like a blooming flower are these:
The things of life, some strings, some keys.
Sweet ivory tinkling like a bell,
Then growing louder as music swells.
Composing music is an onward journey,
When one is moving, always learning
Though sometimes hard when it is forced,
It ends up lovely when from a pure source.
Music is flowing through mind and soul.
If only all people could feel it and know
How it feels to sit, to sing, to play,
To just let time pass and pass the day
Then to fall asleep with a song on your lips,
And a hum in your head from your musical trip.
In song you find your life is there.
When upon the paper you cast all your cares.
And so with this I leave you now:
A place to go in a realm less proud.
Where things of life are strings and keys.
Much like a blooming flower are these.