Hordes chasing Chords

My red marble floor is stained with failed ambition. Wish I had ammunition to be a better musician. Then I think is writing poetry make you more then your words. My words become more like hordes of that want to communicate with chords. I don’t want to win any awards. I just want to others to hear what I record, Even if it’s just for someone to not feel alone. My brain becomes a cyclone that twists and turns it only drifts further into the unknown. The only way to find your throne. I refuse to be overthrown. This is my home.