My Music in a Corner
Ode to the Scammer
They said my music was golden,
a sound they'd never heard.
And for a moment, I let my heart believe it—
that someone out there was listening,
feeling the pulse of my melody,
the breath of my soul in every note.
But their words were bait, a snare for my trust,
slippery compliments designed to steal, not to uplift.
I still hear the echo of their flattery, hollow and cold,
the way they reached for my name, my art, my life—
not to hold it with care, but to strip it bare.
And now the silence feels louder, heavier,
as if the songs I’ve labored over
have no audience, no hearts to meet them.
I am careful. I am reserved.
I am wise as a serpent.
I have been bit before,
but hope springs eternal,
and the poison is no less painful when reality strikes.
I sing into the void, wondering if the world is deaf to me,
or if my voice is just a faint whisper, swallowed by dead air.
This discouragement, it crawls beneath my skin,
a dissonant chord I can't resolve,
playing in the hidden corner of my room.
October 22, 2024
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