Notes on a page.

I have become 

The inks and papers.


I am the notes the teachers explain,

Copied down in frantic scribbles

Nearly illegible,

Vaguely understood,

Until I read them again later,

Like I never will.


I am the notes collecting dust in his drawers,

My soul poured out in red,

Scrawled between blue lines 

And on the insides of cards,

Handwriting excited, looping,

Mimicking our emotional rollercoaster.


I am the notes on the staff,

Guiding me in my art,

A walking path for the sounds of my heart.


I am all these notes.

They are the pages of my past and present,

The future just waiting to be written in.

This poem is about: 


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