I was once a baritone, Timbre like the weight of stone, And yet in the aching arms of a piano I could weep and keep the sweetest soprano, But that was long ago, you see, When the curtains rose just for me, And not for choruses, such as now I abide, Like an tuneless trumpet, by the side.
I have no voice left, so to speak, Just a twig of pitch, dry and weak, Which I wring each day, north and south For a morsel to fill my mortal mouth, So in glory of the dream slain past Could I sail again, against this motion vast, Of arpeggios the world claim true, That once left my falsetto in ruin and rue.
I am a Social Worker by day and an artist/writer by night. I use the written word in an attempt to make sense of the secret worlds and dysfunctional dynamics that lurk beneath the facades of our daily interactions. I am not sure how my writing styles are characterized, nor am I overly concerned about it. I am immensely enthusiastic about music and often connect better with songs than I do people. I also have an intense appreciation for quality wines and whiskies, frequently consuming them in excess. I like things that smell good and struggle to manage the symptoms of a life-long relationship with depression. So, why "grumpygorman"? Spend some time here and find out...
View more posts
