The pressure of my finger pushes the keys,
spelling out each word of my thoughts.
Like a pianist, I play out the story,
hitting every note with emotion.

Sometimes the lines sing sweet melodies,
while others pound like drums.
So loud, it beats at my chest,
and like a violin bow, it tugs at the strings.

The sound turns into pages of a life.
It belts out the pains and the triumphs,
the dreams and the doubts,
hoping that someone will hymn it out loud.

My instruments are my hands.
My voice is my words.
Reading it is like a needle on a record.
Feeling it is like music to the soul.