The Solo

A Poem by Crystal Heart

I wish I could play to my own beat I guess...

I was taken from my tight, zipped- up case,

Into the spotlight,

Where your hands slowly moved down my curves,

And gawked at how smooth my skin was.

I was silent as you gingerly held your stick,

And quickly struck me lightly to hear my voice.

Immediately you fell in love with the vibrations

That emitted from my core.

And like a child surrounded by pots and pans,

You began to hit me harder and harder,

Relishing how my cries became louder and louder,

And more startling with each impact.

From here on, you struck me each day,

And with practice, became a master

At controlling my voice.

Sometimes you would like to create

Just a simple gentle rhythm of suspense

Like a rumbling of thunder.

Other times, it was the signal of war-

The echoes of my cries

Could be heard from miles on end.

At least you were kind enough

Not to break my skin

So I can continue to please you with my sound.

But I soon came to learn

That the harder I was hit,

The more powerful was my voice.

But even if I never controlled the rhythm,

People gathered in crowds

To hear our performance.

On the fore-front would be the beautiful

Slender, shiny instruments

That were gracefully strummed or blown.

Yet, I would be hidden in the back,

Away from the eyes of the spectators

With only my shrills to be heard.

But it is a necessity

To complement the sweet melody,

My vibrations to stir the particles in the air

And shake the ground for your applause.

You would complain about the weight

That I carried,

Yet still loved to lose yourself to my sound.

Why did you continue to still

Carry me everywhere you go?

I wanted to be on a different note

Until he, my dearest love, joined my section.

I appreciated how our beats

Complemented one another

With the poundings we endured.

Our composition was beautiful

And I finally enjoyed the sound of my voice

Next to the low, steady pace of his

As we escalated to the climax of our performance.

However, through carelessness

He was punctured through his skin.

I realized he could not

Endure this playing anymore

And I no longer heard him cry.

Horrified I was to see

Him with his inside finally exposed

And to realize that the source

Of those strong sounds

Did not come from any core.

He was a hollow shell of an instrument

And left me to continue to receive the blows

And continue the piece

Even though, I too, was as hollow.

But I guess now it is time

For my drum solo.

© 2017 Crystal Heart

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John the Baptist

Though written in the language of symbolism, this offering seems to follow the speaker's journey through abuse. The greater part of the poem describes the abuse, apparently physical, of an authority figure, either a parent or early partner. These are disturbing images of one of low self esteem at the mercy of a sadist. The last two stanzas deal with another relationship, evidently a lover, who seemed to be a source of rescue until exhibiting some sort of character weakness which caused the speaker to reject him. For some reason I feel substance abuse is a factor here. The poem's only expression of hope is at the end, when the speaker seemingly recognizes that self reliance must replace dependency upon the kindness/reliability of others. This hopefully will become a tale of resurrection. Very good work here.