The chords dance over my skin,
the notes waltz around my head,
and my fingers itch to draw it out.
I feel the pulsing of the (heart)beat,
and the breathless soar of the rhythm,
and I want so bad to see it lived out.
Filling in the lyrics with splashes of color,
and shading in the emotion with charcoal.
It's a gorgeous masterpiece, but it's not me.
My hands freeze and falter, while
my mind races faster, trying to keep
up with the demanding music.
(and I can't even write it out how I want to. that feeling of belonging, of loving and losing and laughter and tears. of knowing and growing and finally touching the burning sun. it twists and turns and caresses, but it's impossible to catch and pin down. no broken butterfly wings for mistress music, nosiree. phoenix wings means that she'll never ever be put down. and isn't that a fucking relief?)