Whispering truths through his mouthpiece, spiraling out of his saxophone
As his face contorts to the beat and the rhymes, lyrics that he has sewn
Telling of his mistakes and happiness, a past he wants to disown
But knows the wealth that comes from exploring where, the man he is, was grown
Like gunshots, each drumbeat hits his ears like every fist that he had thrown
His skin being sliced back with every sharp noise revealing only bone
Protruding from the gut. hitching lungs to the fingers that sway his tone
Flesh, tangled in his sax, gives him as a high a rush as methadone
The only thought peering from his head is that tonight he isn't alone
About the Creator
Andrew Schrader
Writer/Photographer
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