Magnus Grace

I won’t even attempt to write a poem about music- poems aren’t me. I’ve never been good at writing them. But a block of text doesn’t look as pretty. It really just looks like a rant. And I guess, that’s what it is.

The trees 

lightly dance in the 

 cold 

winter air, 

the birds sing a song 

like a choir the sound 

echoes on tops of hills 

enlightening the day,

I find at night

I am haunted by thoughts.

Simpler things, like

Math assignment due tomorrow, can I finish it by then?

or

Did I really turn in the essay or not? I don't remember...

What if

I could be a real actor

What if

It doesn't matter if my name sounds like a big-movie-star name?

What if I'm delusional?

What if I don't really care?

I have never been a poet,

But for you I will try.

It is started by a piece of paper

written in blue pen ink

smeared as it is folded twice

passed to a friend.

Purple marker replies to blue pen

folded up the same way as before;