Letter to Schubert

Dear Schubert,

my dear friend,

you miserable brokenhearted,

how much am I just like you.

A few years later,

thus I warn you,

nothing new.

There’s still loneliness around everybody.

As if they’re walking with a circle around.

I know that you hoped your music

would take off that circle

and give them strength to open arms

but there are springs that are so cold

that no flowers rise from ground,

but to your sound,

they do.

I saw that

when I sat on a park bench

and heard your piano,

in my mind.

It’s almost like the nature within me

felt better.

Why do you try to hide that you’re

unhappy?

Even through your major chords

your shifts and twists and twirls

of the normal note,

you miserable brokenhearted,

you can’t fool me,

I can hear you.

You don’t sound to me

like a man who tasted happiness

or love

or a morning kiss

or…

some good sex.

I once tried to make love

to a girl

on one of your symphonies.

She said it was her best,

but after that night,

she didn’t call back.

I know now that it was your fault,

you miserable friend.

I know I am your miserable friend too

even though we never met.

I would have loved to

have long talk with you

over a bottle

till the bar closes

and on the way home too.

But we do,

from time to time,

when I play you in my mind.

They call you romantic composer,

ha! Knew that would make you laugh.

You know that joke?

Beethoven and Mozart are talking.

who talks most?

Mozart, but Beethoven doesn’t hear a thing.

Meh! Not really funny,

poor Beethoven,

I’ll write him too.

Above all things,

my dear miserable friend,

hope you smile

wherever you are,

cause your violins do..

To SCHUBERT

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