Forbidden Language

Sitting on the wooden bench,
Glaring at the taunting notes mocking symbols,
scattered across the pairs of ribbons, five lines each,
jointed together by a bracket.

What kind of language do these symbols read?
Do they hold a secret message of some sort?

Alas, but these strange patterns are of a beautiful language,
Universal is what they call it.

Yes, these symbols are foreign.
Multiple dialects, differing in sound, perhaps,
but one overall.

Dating back to before time,
before the blackness of night was dotted with the celestial spheres,
These we call stars...Light of the universe.

It belongs to a whole different world,
Yet, wallowing in our own.

Its time measured by the ticks of the pendulum,
The returning swing of the metronome.
Time leaves its mark on the bars,
Inscribing it's signature -
an essential fraction.

The sounds, so beautiful
when pronounced so clearly,
Eager tones, wait to be bounced off of surfaces.
Moods changing with every wavering note that lingers in the air.
Due to the damper of course.

The harmonious symphonies mock me,
even the birds sing to me,
The whirring of a ceiling fan reminds me of what it has.
It has rhythm, of which I have not.

How frustrating it is to be sitting on this wooden bench!
How I wish to be able to use this language.
I certainly speak it, vocally, I assure you that.
But I know for a fact, I cannot read its time,
its letters, its language
I cannot use its tools,
nor will anything I try suffice.
It will not be good enough,
not be sound enough,
not be pleasing to the ears,
comforting the heart.

I will never weave those ribbons,
with practice, possibly -
but barely to an extent.

Golden tunes flowing from my fingers,
or perhaps, blowing from my hasty breath.
Yet, as pathetic as it seems, I am incapable.
My tunes are incomprehensible, proving I am incompetent.

That is most likely one failed attempt.
The language is called music,
How inspired I am by it now.

And yet, I picture it.
I sit here, at this desk,
Staring at the paper lined with blue,
like straight rows of cirrus up in the sky.
In my hand, a pencil screams to be used,
to be blunt,
and pour out the soul of graphite that lies within it.

The little wooden stick envies music, sure,
Yet it knows that without it, written symphonies,
orchestrated tunes,

or even lines scrawled, to eventually become songs

would never exist.