The silence fears me,
Softly, slowly growing louder,
Reaching a low murmur, a hum, a buzz,
Clouding the quiet as I make a sound,
Out it comes.
The first beat of a drum,
A simple rhythm pushing its way out;
Cymbals banging, cellos picking:
My life has begun.
Black keys on white keys
Under fingers dancing fluidly.
Trying to set the foundation for how each
Instrument should be playing.
As the song keeps going
That creativity will keep growing
And overflowing like
The weeds in a garden
That desperately need mowing.
My life is a jazz song, singing, swaying,
A diversity of influences and notes
Making up the song that I'm playing.
The beautiful mess of my mind filled with ideas and aspirations,
A multitude of different artists performing together as one;
Combining the cultures of my parents
From different corners of the planet
Into the sound I inherit,
My style of jazz was born.
A new association of the nations
Forming a cultural sensation,
Mixing the drums of Lebanon
With the German’s French horn.
As the artists take the stage,
Paintbrushes in hand,
They begin painting the picture of my life,
Playing the song of who I am.
First the flute
To let its notes take flight.
The smallest member of the band
Pushing forward into the glow of the spotlight.
The other instruments told it
It would never make its way,
But in the light it’ll stay,
And it’ll play,
Because of the hard work it’s put in
To make it center stage.
Sweetly, softly, smoothly,
It tells of the kid that finally sat still,
The one that was fighting against depression
Until he saw that short film.
The kid that came up,
Tears streaming down his cheek,
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,
Your film told me I wasn’t weak.”
Make up the sound that it sings,
Of selflessness, love, compassion,
And the happiness that they bring.
Then the blaring sound of the trumpet
Ringing in the drums of my ears,
Exposes the hardships of my heart,
The summit of my fears.
Radiating shades of blues and grays,
Revealing emotions from within,
Spawning from my very worst days.
Like when the doctors had said
That this was the end,
That I had lost one of my closest and dearest friends;
The trumpet played on,
Echoing in the dark alleys of my heart,
Preventing me from moving along.
And that sound that was played
When my grandfather passed away
Will hold and stay
Like a scat man whose pitch has lost its way,
Until the end of day upon day comes
Fall like my eyes' tears
From the years that
My pain couldn't be numbed.
Brass shining in the spotlight,
The true sound of the soul,
The trumpet doesn’t tell stories of defeat,
But instead stories of revival.
Each note pulls me out of the ashes,
So I can rise above,
To tell tales of inspiration,
To help others find the same love.
Finally finding way to the stage
Beside the singing brass,
Ready to break loose from its cage,
The sultry sound of the alto sax.
The core of who I am
Is the song that the sax sings:
Care and consideration towards others,
And a love of storytelling.
A love that began in the years of my past
A love that they believed would never last.
They said I wasn’t good enough, that I didn’t have the brains,
For who expects a peasant to become a king
Without a drop of royal blood in his veins?
But I kept at it
As the sax growled notes powerful and strong,
Experimenting and learning from my mistakes,
I wanted to prove them wrong.
I don’t think outside the box,
From the average path I veer
Instead I focus on the box
And try to shape it into a sphere.
But this battle I fight
Isn’t just my own,
A journey from the bottom to top
Is a story that we all have known.
The upbringing of the underdog
The flight of the few,
And I’m just trying to tell the world
If I can do it, so can you.
My life is a jazz song; there is no doubt,
And as long as I follow the compass of my heart,
It will never fade out.
And although it takes clear eyes to film
And a mind that doesn’t lack,
How can you make a great film
Without an equally good soundtrack?