I am a musician;
I practice every day,
But when I use my instrument,
You cannot hear me play.
You see, I make music,
But only for the eyes.
It speaks loudly with silence,
The truth behind the lies.
The pencil is my instrument;
I take it everywhere.
It's fun 'cause when I play it,
Nobody wants to stare.
There's no pressure when I play
'Cause it's all in my head.
They cannot hear my music,
Not unless it is read.
My feelings remain silent,
Just words stuck on a page,
Though it would be the same without it,
A bird stuck in it's cage,
But the page gives them more meaning,
Something that wasn't there before.
The page, it gives them purpose,
A knocking at the door.
A visitor? Who could it be?
I ponder as I stare.
The knock beckons me closer,
But the door gives me despair.
To let someone else in my mind,
The thought gives me a scare,
But to leave my safe place in the dark?
I would never dare.
The door opens, just a crack,
A beam of light cuts through the air.
I look to see just who it is,
But nobody is there.
Just a pencil laying on the floor,
And some words stuck on a page.
I pick them both up from the ground;
They both look worn with age.
My eyes look upon the page,
Soon all of it is read.
I memorized it word for word,
And this is what it said:
"I am a musician;
I practice everyday,
But when I use my instrument,
You cannot hear me play,
But that's because I never have,
It's confusing, I'll admit.
I've never played my instrument,
Not even a bit.
The pencil is my instrument;
It's simple; don't you see?
I have never played the pencil;
T'was the pencil that played me."
