The Washed-Up Violinist

I remember when violin was my entire being.

Morning,

noon,

and night.

Years of my life consumed by this object that would somehow provide a new future for me.

Being burnt to a crisp, I decided I no longer wanted it to be my goal, but the fire I burn only out of love.

Afterwards, everyone fled,

the dollar signs were no longer bright in their eyes when they looked at me.

I was of no value to them anymore,

a constant reminder of the failure haunted me.

Until I picked up my pen and began writing every emotion I couldn't play.

The dollar signs flashed in their eyes again, but I walked away.

Sweet soft melodies can be played or spoken,

it's all in the articulation.

I am the washed up violinist. I own it.

But I will forever be that little girl with a big dream,

yearning to be heard by the world.