I envy those who write
Write so well
Even if no one else reads it, it is there for themselves to look at. Later
The instruments are the pen and paper and things stay once put out
I wish I could make the music stay
Between my fingers and the strings, the things that come out flutter
Then its gone.
Later I struggle to remember, that chord, that note, the pull, that slide and the strum, and the beat that was in my head
A recorder could be my paper
But it isn't as white
And not as inviting