Sometimes I wonder
why I find security within the verse
in the sweet cadence of words
in the scratch of a pencil on cream-colored paper
My fingers can’t form melodies
but the rise and fall of a song
pulls on my heart more
than my words ever could
Sometimes I sit searching
for a phrase to grasp the feeling
of a note ringing in my chest
warm
and comforting
and calm
What words could I possibly use
to describe the faint raindrops
of my heartbeat hitting my ribcage
or a head filled with drying clay
or a thousand small hands pushing behind my iris
when Bach has already crafted it
so
perfectly
Sometimes I wonder
why the lines
why the words
why is my medium so quiet
when the things in it seem so loud?
