I have lost
and so I mourned
to this blank music sheet.
I have felt as though I have been
dragged by a pen—
ballpoint scratching paper
and I have grasped and gasped
for air.
I have thought the music was the star
and I was the conductor
but the pen's soul spills,
than I'd ever fill,
and it is its own writer.
See,
the pen writes scribbles unmatched
to any tempo.
I fall asleep to its written lullaby,
and yet awaken to its crescendo.
The pen stops to rest
I try to write to the staves in this sheet
filling spaces,
knowing my lines—
but the pen jumps to consecutive sixteenths
note
after note
after note
building melody,
and yet tearing it apart.
I have mourned because I lost
to the pages preceding
those that tickled the fickle
out
of their passions
as their soul trickled
out
of their bodies.
Just as though tears
have trickled down cheeks
and melodies
to unsuspecting ears—
Just as though money
have trickled to emptiness
and former glories
to wasted years.
The pen does not lose ink,
and yet it pauses.
The pages are filled,
but do not fulfill their purpose.
I have lost,
and I have mourned,
to this filled music sheet.
Watch as my
fingers grapple with the pen
as it tries to grip to paper
I pry it's grasp open
until I am able to drag pen
across paper
Watch as I
Fill blank pages
than a pen could ever—
Take hold of the melody
than a pen could ever—
Place purpose on paper
than a pen could ever—
I have lost
and so I mourned
but I will not be grieving forever.
