[Verse 1 AMS] A life in epistolary, trap an existence in words A life story between the lines, follow the details of the curves Every inkblot donates to intricacies untold The frayed edges of the notebook, and how easy the paper folds The scratched and erased, the lifespan, probably what its seen The ink fingertips that traced and dogeared pages, making the edges unclean The scars and imperfections seem simple on the surface But every mark and singular speck serves a significant purpose Cognizant of only myself the stray noise I could hear The soft static of pen against paper, and the speech that reached my ears The space between inspirations was just the wide rule of a line My ranges were infinite, lying between divine and D Minor Nine An addiction to ballpoint pens, inject upon a daily round Carrying blanks with in case something came disguised as profound The hands ached, the surroundings and purpose changed Leather bound journals became napkins in restaurants, but the drive was still the same I dined upon jazz records, and digested the inspirations But suffered stomaches if I hadnt fulfilled the postlistening obligation Sip the record skips, and drain the rest to use as ink Absorb the stereo crackle of vinyl platter, and pushing myself to the brink Breathe deeply and exhale scrawls onto a page Falling off of my margins, and straight into a state enraged Attempt to chisel writers block, back into tabula rosa A long journey to arrive back at the same line I was supposed to Plagued by papyrus, reject the typecasted elite Because Id rather scratch out lines, instead of hitting keys to delete Rejoice when a manuscript is complete, consider the end product blessed But never resting on the laurels, turn the page, and start fresh [Verse 2 AMS] Around About Midnight, I drank the last bottle of Bitches Brew Contemplating A Love Supreme, left me feeling Kind of Blue To snap my mind from the Blue Haze, I scribbled Sketches of Spain Spent the detail on the Birds of Paradise I saw from my windowpane Spoke on paper In a Silent Way, Explorations of better days The Undercurrents of my Tijuana Mood describes my Interplay Sundays at The Village Vanguard, and evenings at Birdland Drifting in and out of listening watching Porgy and Bess hold hands Naima said I was living my Life on Mars Hallucinations of Bamboo Children hanging outside of campus bars Stood under the rusted street lamps of yet another Iron City That was father to The Birth of Cool, but still shows no pity Tip my Porkpie Hat to my forefathers, inspirational kings Who pushed me to wirebound and wide rule, A Few of My Favorite Things Put the needle to the groove, mindset at 33 rotations And attach ballpoint to Mead surface, riding along the improvisations The simplest of substances, with the greatest potential Less than centimeters thick, but having the power to trap instrumentals From phone number to phoneme, chicken scratch to magnum opus Oral hocuspocus, smoking focus, just to make the dopest A paper planet with syllables written on each scrap side Would leave a lifetime of turning pages, looking for sentences inside Constrained only by time and the stanzas composed Letting the instruments fade to nothing, as I let the notebook close
ballpoint, page, am, paper, notebook