Do not tell me that I cannot sing:
I never asked for your critique!
As one cannot tell a caged bird to keep quiet,
So one cannot quell that innermost riot
Without soothing the soul's angry beast.
Music is more than a melody with lyrics,
Greater than the sum of its parts;
The sound the voice makes is inconsequential,
The words of the song just as inessential
If the pain is expunged from the heart.
Most healing are harmonies of silent solos
In cephalic cantadas unheard
For moanings so deep they cannot be uttered
With grief that reduces each laugh to a stutter;
Though caged, my soul's still a bird.