Bleed

Some poetry is lost to the world like the kid who plugs up his ears to block out the sound, eyes on the ground, marching in time to the cadence no one else hears. I see him sometimes standing in line feet marking time. His hands are always busy and so are mine and I see that same spirit in his eyes and it feels like I never see it anywhere. I'm sorry I stare, but your eyes want to share

Those who say the notes are all black and white can't look past the page they're written on. And when it's gone? I grieve for greyscale musicians and wonder if the whole world looks that way to them. Even the technical comes in Technicolor. The paper can't play, and the sheet can't sing. So what can you bring? You can coat the page, slide it in, let it suffocate between layers of plastic, and keep the corpse tied to your side. Or you can let it breathe, loved and beaten and squeezed of the juices of its rhythm. You'll feel the flow of the drip-drip-drip grow as you swim further in. Begin being and find the soul in every hole between the notes and let it wail like you never knew you could and maybe it'll teach you a thing or two about who you need to be. Be. Just be what God wanted your hands to be and reveal the pump that gives push to the pulse that powers the playing and pour it all in. Let it bleed through the bead and breed with every passing molecule of air and learn to swim in the music or go deaf to the beating of your own heart.