marchingband
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A day in August;
hot as hell.
mark time mark!
and I'm not doing well.
But I'm doing my best.
and that's very good.
but you're not the best.
Why?
That's what I ask
When I see you frown
Every. Single. Day.
You never fail to intimidate others
With your apperant foul mood
Hasn't anyone told you
Rows, rows of music
Three people higher then the rest
High brass, melody in hand
Low brass, big white notes
The sweat, working hard as a unit
The wood of over used reeds
My mouth warm against my face
Step on the field
Adrenaline rushes
The announcer begins
The crowd quickly hushes
The music begins
Perhaps a simple note
Left foot first
Listen back to percussion
Stay in line
I watch the leaves across the field fall as if in slow motion
My arms and hands raise in a flourish
The fading light of day glintsoff their instrumets
A chill runs down my spine
But I do not feel cold.
A slap across the face
With no pain.
Black and blue covering a once perfect skin
And I see nothing.
Here I stand.
Only to be moved by a sturdy hand.
A force, a revolution.
Making us change, evolution.
Here I stand with others.
Against the words and hatred of our brothers.
The mallet strikes a key,
One resounding note.
The crowd grows silent,
Holding their breath.
A forty-five degree angle,
The mallets are still.
We are told that what we do is not a sport
We are told that we are not athletes
Yet we are the ones that spend hundreds of hours working
Yet we are the ones that are sweating, sun burt and tired
Eyes open. Chest out. Back straight. Shoulders back.
Closed mouth, open mind. Now be ready for attack.
All the words flow through my mind.
So distracting, I’m so behind!
Out of tune, out of time,
All year, we've been preparing for this moment.
The grueling practices,
The difficult performances,
The friendships formed.
This is our time to shine.
