By Rebekah Hewitt
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I am an instrument.
An old, broken one
That longs to be played,
A song longing to be sung.
I sit there lifelessly
Collecting dust and dirt
And drowning in the silence
With only my thoughts at work.
I think of all the songs I could play,
But have no musician to play me.
I'm useless, worthless without a Musician
Without one I cannot be free.
The freedom I find in playing my music
Is beyond what words can describe.
But why think about the music I can make
If I'm stuck where no musician could find
I don't even know if musicians are real,
At least I've never seen any.
I'm beginning to lose hope to ever be played
After all, I'm broken. It wouldn't sound right anyway.
Why was I even bought
If all I do is sit here and wither?
I'm useless, drowning in dust and dirt
This is until I heard a whisper.
The light turned on down the hall
And footsteps began to come
Louder and louder the steps became
Until the musician appeared in the door frame.
I didn't believe it,
He'd finally come!
He walked over, picked me up,
Played me, and so I sung
I was a useless instrument
Without my musician
But now I'm being played
And my song is a commission
My song will be heard throughout all the world
The song My musician orchestrates.
I'll paint a picture through his song
There's no better picture I'd rather illustrate.
About the Author
Rebekah Hewitt is a senior in high school and plans to graduate in a half semester. She has taken many dual credit ICC classes. Rebekah found her love for writing poetry in middle school, and since then has written numerous poems. She hopes to use her writing in the future to share hope and love with others.