It all seems to clack.
Smack. Against my skin.
Tingling lips. Touched with a sense
Of music.
Boiling my blood to the beat.
The day cold lips, smooth sound, meet, greet, end.

The girl with the skin
Of rhythm. The girl with the sense
Of a singer. The girl with a steady heart beat,
Never ending.
The girl with a life of taps, snaps, clacks.
The girl filled with nothing but music

Where is that girl with the certain sense?
The one that sings to the very end.
The one who’s heart beats
With a simple clack, clack.
Who’s skin
Leaks music.

The girl with the tough skin.
Yet still brave enough to let music
In. Fearing nothing except the end
Of the day, when music no longer clacks
To her drum. There is no longer a sense
Of loneliness in her past. For now the only thing she has, is beats, gentle beats.

And once music has ended,
She lays in her skin,
Hearing the beats
Of the music once more. Clacking
And tapping against her softly. Sensing
Her bliss. For music

Is bliss. Clacking
In her ears. Beating
In her heart. Sensing
All over her skin,
Is music, never-ending
Music.