The music martyrs

And so these cursed songs never become silent.

Their haunting melodies and lamenting lyrics

penetrate our everyday existence, day in and day out.


Sometimes, they blatantly shove the anguish in your face

as the (unfortunate) familiar chords are blurted out over the radio

like they knew you were listening now.


Sometimes, it creeps up on you with premeditated evilness

slyly, like a demon bully child on the class weakling

when you suddenly recognize the damnable tune on the grating supermarket speaker

between the light-hearted giggles of the couple choosing a dessert for their romantic dinner.


And sometimes

in a moment of abandonment of all intentions of restoration

you choose, deliberately, almost aggressively

to allow the cursed songs to be injected into your veins

drinking in the remembrance of past wounds and yes, even happiness

with an abnormal hunger,

as if exposing and exploiting these phantom memories

will miraculously cure the longing, the regret, the hurt and,

the haunting question of ‘what if…?’


But the cure never comes.

On the contrary, the ache seems to expand exponentially, violently

until it becomes too big to bear.

And then it pathetically deflates – not bursts – like a soggy colorless balloon,

turning you into a lifeless cocoon,

numb and sterile to all hope and happiness

but with the aching memories always lurking

silently spreading poisonous infection below the surface

which will one day erupt like a dormant volcano

with a guaranteed path of destruction.


Yet, we, the music martyrs

embrace our toxic addiction with the devotion of a loving mother

our child, the manifestation of pain.

The End

8 comments about this poem Feed