Your trumpet
With a voice that screams "Why?"
As you yell louder and more
a part of you dies.

A golden incubus
A flame
Wishing you possessed
an ounce of fame

So that someone would hear you;
And someone would care.
But as your throat starts bleeding
all they do is stare.

They can't hear your screams,
calm your trembling,
taste your tears.

They haven't the foggiest notion
why you shudder,
why you fear.

The brass shoots out warnings:
You're about to collapse.
And with hyperventilation,
it falls to your lap.

You lean over, steady
you try not to fall.
Some kids there are concerned,
the teacher answers your call.

She turns to you,
and you gasp and you wheeze,
"Mrs. Hayzeeworth,
can I transfer our of band please?"
Note: Mrs. Hayzeeworth is entirely fiction. I MADE HER UP. I didn't copy my
school's band director's. I don't even know them. O.o;
Second note: R+R =)