Author Information
The Cellist
Folder:
One Slum Prodigy's Poetybook
She played the cello more than twice a day,
As if she has no conception of whether
She was suficiently talented to really play,
But others discerned how she had gotten better.
She was young and shrewd likewise;
She was so clever and genuinely kind,
That she had yet to see her first demise,
Because it was something nobody could find.
Woman? No, she's not;
Feministic Lady Cellist? She is indeed;
She organized her life in a teeny plot
To get whatever she would need.
She had the hopes and aspires
For which she longed to come true,
But those became only her desires,
Once she met a man; it would discontinue.
O, how sweet were her melodies in a symphony,
She played so proficiently well;
O, how bleak was the lack of an empiphany,
She was in love with a wretch, but couldn't tell.
He impregnated her
And denied his paternity;
Like many men, he hid from what occurred,
Leaving her alone with their child for eternity.
Her life, her velleity, her dreams
Were indefinitely shattered
And her aspirations had seemed
To have diffusively scattered.
From music to infatuation,
Then, to a cute little child;
She was calm about the situation,
When single maternity drives teens wild.
She sacrificed her music truly,
To become a good mother;
She was a mother very newly.
But she perfected like no other.
She shall always be the cellist...
