Notes On A Page

Playing with punctuation trying to find meaning in life.

I wish I could compose.

.Myself.

But notes don't drip on paper.

They don't taste like salt.

Or burn like melted wax.

I wish I could compose.

.Myself.

When two drums stop beating as one

No amount of pounding on my chest

Can start the rhythm again.

O tempo FF

One

Broken drum.

Beat beat Beat beat

bebeatat

I wish I could compose.

.Myself.

Because then

I wouldn't have to depend on lips

To scream the music of the innermost chamber in my

Heart.

I wish I could compose.

.Myself.