Blank Page
[Intro] [Single kick, then voice — flat, like reading from a page that isn't there] I got the words now. Didn't have 'em then. Back then I just had hands. [Verse 1 — The Classroom] [Close-mic, measured, each line a footstep back in time] Teacher says spell "necessary" — I freeze, pen in fist Two s's or one? No book at home — I never had a list Just a Bible won at church, Genesis to Exodus Doesn't teach you double letters, doesn't teach you how to ask Chalk dust hangs like something sacred in the fluorescent light Kid beside me — clean shoes, right answers — everything sits tight I copy off his arm, my sleeve too short to block the view They don't laugh. That's worse. I'm not worth a reaction to. Radiator ticks. Clock ticks. Everything in here keeps count Except me — I'm the draft that slips beneath the door and out Thirty desks, thirty names the teacher knows by sound Mine comes out like something heavy she would rather put back down [Verse 2 — The Body] [Beat stays, pace slightly slower — the body remembering] Same sandwich. Every day. Peanut butter on white. Bread so thin the fluorescent cuts right through it like a light Other kids got foil-wrapped warm — I feel the heat Two chairs away. I don't look. I eat fast. Feet beneath the seat. Three winters in the same pants — knees show through like bone through skin Cold don't knock. Cold don't ask. Cold just pulls up a chair and sits. Apple on her tray. Juice box with a straw. I memorize the things I'll never have — and swallow what I saw. My mother's hands — 5 AM, already cracked and red She left before I woke. Just a glass of water by the bed. That glass meant: I'm coming back. Don't be afraid. I drank it slow. Twelve sips. I counted every one I made. [Chorus] [Beat drops to just kick — nothing else. Voice alone.] Blank page. Cold hands. Pen right here — the words aren't. I got 'em now. Every single one. Still can't fill it in. [Verse 3 — The Assignment] [Pace picks up — frustration building beneath the cold surface] "Write your future." That's what she said. September. Second grade. The others started writing — I just watched their pencils wade Across the lines like boats that knew exactly where to go I held the pen. The page held still. The clock was running slow. Fireman. Doctor. Astronaut. The words went past like birds Landing on their papers — light, and easy, and warm I didn't know those words. I knew: the light bill's red. I knew: don't open the door for anyone. I knew: there's nothing in the bread. She walked past my desk. Stopped. Looked down at nothing. Walked away. That pause — I still carry it. I carry it today. [Chorus] [Just kick and voice] Blank page. Cold hands. Pen right here — the words aren't. I got 'em now. Every single one. Still can't fill it in. [Bridge] [Beat almost stops — just the kick, breathing, tape hiss] I'm standing in that classroom now. I got a suit. I got a car. I got words for every man who ever thought he'd get this far. But that desk is still in me — third row, second from the wall. And that page is still blank. I never filled it in at all. [Outro] [Voice drops to near-whisper, beat fading] Fireman. Doctor. Astronaut. I became the kid who learned to talk. Learned to cut. Learned to parse. Learned to make 'em flinch. But I still can't write what cold felt like on the wrong side of the fence. (Kick stops. Silence. Vinyl crackle fades.)
