then the music feels like <br />the sounds of the worst night mare <br />of your worst childhood fevers. <br />echoes you hate, <br />and a murderer you would become, <br />not of those players, <br />but of yourself. <br />The worst rain, <br />the worst color in the air, <br />suddenly the best things <br />collect themself into <br />nothing. <br />while all the good things evaporate.. <br />silence slowly <br />is replaced by the <br />victories of ghosts. <br />those creatures <br />who would otherwise be none <br />existence is your failure. <br />At the times when you would rather not hear any music, <br />you would rather swallow your guts <br />and wait for the preys <br />to make up their own minds. <br />and you know it as well <br />how they smile when they lose, <br />the ghosts and you, <br />you are tuned in to such a pitch <br />that <br />you become a murderer, <br />of you <br />and not of anybody else, <br />at the times when you would rather not hear any music.<br /><br />celine charcoal<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-times-when-you-would-rather-not-hear-any-mus/
