My mind's directly connected,
To my fingers.

The words flow almost unbidden,
Onto digital paper.

Rather than sword extending my limbs,
There's a keyboard at the end.

Before my eyes, art's created.
Black forms a rainbow in my mind.

This is what it's like,
To be a writer, natural-born.

Music pours forth,
As three fingers push down valves.

A steady beat is in my head,
The music's my only limit.

Rather than playing notes,
I help create music.

This is what it's like,
To be a euphonist, natural-born.

Piano and forte,
Are all that matter now.

The music's ingrained in my brain,
Now just master feeling.

Slurs, staccatos,
Pedal, or no.

It doesn't matter anymore.

This is what it's like,
To be a natural-born pianist.

Singing to the world,
Not the slightest care why,
Writing incessently,
Piano and euphonium,
Origami, jewelry,
Family and friends,

This is what it's like,
To be a natural-born me.