The paper
stares back at me while
the music in my heart is connected
to my recordplayer, from where
words stream of which I wished they'd been mine
Slowly ink defeats the whiteness
without me really saying something but
things I already said or idea's
from someone else
Just a drive to frame this moment of
stilness
defied by only the dust
on my records
and their music, whispering softly in my room
But music is the silence I rest my mind in
letting it be carried away to fields of words
that others wrote and
are not for me to harvest, only
to enjoy
but that's something I already said