Flipping through the pages,
Books that are decades old,
Evidence of his journey in voice,
The turmoil has risen to my throat,
Forming a lump hurting me as I try to speak,
Singing would be throbbing if endeavored
Dismayed many has she,
The hall that is approaching,
Of which she trepidate to enter,
She knows her position is next to the piano,
If only there would be a way to ring the melodies
I have followed the steps of Casanova,
Displaying his charms and picturesque in his personality,
For I would love to delve into the beauty of voices,
Enlightening ears that share the same passion,
And the longing to step out of mere falsetto,
Into a wall of music of full voice,
However, I failed Scarlatti,
In not having faith of another to stage upon his piece,
A young musician who has very little faith,
In possession of an unpolished voice,
Only opening the door to those she trusts,
The predisposition of avoiding mockery,
Avoiding discrimination and uncertainty in herself,
The feelings are rather ambiguous,
Which weighs heavier each day,
A soul who hated the tension in the vocal folds,
Praying tolerance would be a step to the centre of the stage,
Just to find herself in the mirror room,
Lost in the torture of the Phantom,
A phantom that lies within her.
Afraid indeed I am,
Of leaving it for eternity once it is done,
The temperature is rising,
My pulse is raising,
The anxious ones are waiting to hear,
As I struggle to part my lips,
To contribute the last of my voice,
Living life normal amongst normality but spineless
Appoint me a cowardice soul,
To comfortability and trust I blame,
Question not my passion,
Because it has been blazing in me,
A musician's mother sang throughout conceiving,
Who gave birth to a singer who left her stage,
Taking with her a faint voice,
As there is no music to be heard no more...
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