I picked up poetry to write what I can’t say to anyone. I picked up guitar to play what words couldn’t find. Tell me why I’m running out of both ink and melody. Why has the pen run dry and the strings snap? Why has music failed to speak when the words faltered? Why have my words fallen short when music is silenced?

Neither letters nor notes carry the weight I seek them to bear. Neither sonnet nor symphonies echo loud enough for my meaning to be heard.

But I shall continue to write, continue to play. Because when the pen runs dry and the strings snap, there will still be creation left to do. There will still be a heart that beats the rhythm of a soul with a message to be shared.