Here I am, it's all I've got,
empty hands, a forlorn thought.
Sheets laid out, I play my part,
although the melody does taste tart,
harmonic echoes stir the heart.
Just a frame with damaged canvas,
emotion smears over holes of dampness.
Blank, rough, eraser-torn surface
etching measures of words and purpose.
New terms and concepts scribed by sages,
are chased right back onto their pages.
The memory runs, wanting not to be caught,
it adamantly refuses to be taught.
Dull, the lead of the once sharp pencil,
my mind traces life's varied stencil.
The concepts escape my wandering mind
leaving the text so far behind.
Trembling hands, outstretched to use,
the rope's been cut, and left a bruise.
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