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Broken HeartedHello dear...what is wrong.I can tell you've been cryingplease tell me whythe trails of tearsthe bloodshot of your eyes.why don't you confide in meanymore, my friendthe secrets of your heartthe secrets of your soulyou used to love meyou used to trust mebut now... i don't knowI've ventured every cavern of your soulI do still love youbut not that trust thingbecause... I don't knowyou've seemed to turn so coldwhy don't you want to go outto the mall with meyou don't meet me atour little corner storeWhen we are round our friendsyou act as if we're finebut my eyessee right throughyou used to love meyou used to trust mebut now... i don't knowI've ventured every cavern of your soulI do still love youbut not that trust thingbecause... I don't knowyou've seemed to turn so coldCan we go back to where you'll seethat we had everything, Christine.when nothing came between.you used to love meyou used to trust mebut now... i don't knowI've ventured every cavern
Piano ManHe sitsin a dark room,handsomely clad in a tuxedo.There is no spot light.There is no audience,Just himIn his living roomLast night was BruknerThe night before BeethovenTonight it is Dvořák.He sits down at the keyboard of the Concert Grand PianoHe looks off the stageInto the empty stageInto the empty audienceEvery eye was on himOr on his soulThe very blood that is pumping through his veinsNowThrough the pianoIt has come to lifeHe completes the symphonyThere is no applauseNone but the rain on the window sill.The audience sits there quietly recoveringThe silence was prolongedThe piano man was recovering as wellSomething was stiring inside of himSomething was wrongHe started playing a new songNo one has ever heard it.Not even himHe started off feeblyMistakes numerous yet slowly decreasing.With ever dissonance the audience cringesWith ever resolution the audience is relievedWith ever large chord the audience feels inferiorInferior to the powerThe po
A Father's Fear He walk into the parking lot late that evening. It was actually morning now. The sea of cars now all the same color. The only distinguishing fact between them shape at the dark hour. He pressed the unlock button to see which car lit up rather than pressing lock and making it honk. He was sensitive to all sound, to all light. He found his escape—his red sports car. Whenever something was wrong he went for a ride. Something was truly wrong this time. He open the car door and stepped inside—not taking the time to take off his suit jacket as he usually does, wincing as he enters the illuminated interior. He closed the door slowly. He pulled his seat belt across his chest and guided the buckle to click into place. He sat there as the lights dimmed into an off position. Just sitting there with Mother N