Her Artistry

By: Athena Zapantis

I am not a writer, I am a musician.

Why? I think I’d rather be a writer,

but I am not.

Every day I see

effortlessly written prose

where I’m not looking for it.

I could never be her.

Her words flow

like crashing water in a river,

booming over rocks.

She speaks what she’s written and then says,

“I know, I hate it.”

I disagree wordlessly.

She keeps writing, hoping to improve,

hoping to, perhaps,

touch someone’s heart.

She doesn’t know yet

that her hopes have been realized,

that her words,

her effortlessly strung together

phrases of song,

have already touched my heart.

But me? I can pick up an instrument.

Name it and I’ll play

something sweet, something sad.

At first, you weren’t listening, but now you see that

colors burst forth from the sound.

I play music,

I play heartstrings,

tugging at them,

eliciting emotion through song and soul.

Measure by measure I play with ease

but still, I hear her words of

beautiful prose

echoing behind me.