If only you could walk my way,
And hear the sounds I hear all day,
The music notes that rise and fall,
The words that enter past recall.
I have no gift for song or rhyme,
And yet I feel them all the time,
I cannot coax what lies concealed,
To venture forth and be revealed.
Every time I try to write,
The words will slither out of sight,
They whisper cruelly in my ear,
But on the paper disappear.
Even though it seems to be,
I suffer with the sounds in me,
They comfort me in times of need,
The music plays and words proceed.
You'll never hear a symphony,
Or any of my poetry,
To write the words I'm trying still,
Deep down I know I never will.