Notes on a page.
I have become
The inks and papers.
I am the notes the teachers explain,
Copied down in frantic scribbles
Until I read them again later,
Like I never will.
I am the notes collecting dust in his drawers,
My soul poured out in red,
Scrawled between blue lines
And on the insides of cards,
Handwriting excited, looping,
Mimicking our emotional rollercoaster.
I am the notes on the staff,
Guiding me in my art,
A walking path for the sounds of my heart.
I am all these notes.
They are the pages of my past and present,
The future just waiting to be written in.