Music That Is Not Your Own

Bring out the chisel.
Hold the hammer high.
My windows, long bricked up,
an act of protection and fear,
need to be broken through.
I need sunlight.
I need air.
I need to walk in the grass.
I need visitors.

So swing the hammer.
cut away the mortar and stone.
Leave the rubble. I will climb over it.
I no longer care if the lawn is pristine.
Let the neighbors see.
Let them talk.
Let them see my pale awkward face
as it emerges into the day.

Swing the hammer.
Find a rhythm. Work
until your arm grows sore,
and I will work with you.
It is time
to end this prison you created,
to let the sun and fear wash over you
and hear for the first time
music that is not your own.

About this poem

The picture was taken at Fort Devon, Massachusetts.

I am an introvert, at times perhaps, a bit too much so.

My life right now is an adventure.

From all that, this poem.

Tom