Saturday, December 17, 2011

You play me like a song.
You're off beat. 
You think you know it perfectly.
You're reading the wrong sheet. 
I'm not a melody written clean. 
I'm not on that page, I can't be seen.
I'm in the air, the sound, the tears. 
I'm the paper itself, aging in years. 
You don't know this music. 
You don't know me. 
You don't know my character. 
You can't play this melody.