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The Composer

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Notebook tucked under my chin

Back hunched over

Pen moving across paper as a bow over strings

The gentle scratch of written words
This is the music I make

Not heard aloud but seen

Coming alive in a mind
I am a composer

Of silent ballads and symphonies

A cacophony of words that
Overpowers the largest orchestra

Changing moods and minds like a sonnetta

A silent scraem for help or attention like
The saxaphone that plays outside of the theatre

But pay me not in money
Acceptance and understanding and joy work instead

I am a conductor of letters and words

Poetry, not music but that's all the same
Lost within it, I am free



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