Tap tap.

These sticks in your hands are slick with sweat

Tap tap.

It’s not all that bad, though. Even if it feels that way.

Tap tap.

The light burns and it’s hard to hear your own heartbeat

Tap Tap.

Brows furrowed in concentration. Lips are bitten and calluses expose themselves.

Tap Tap.

Your heartbeat is in the drums, the instruments and organ moving synchronously
Tap Tap. 

Why does one slip away and fall in rhythm with their passion, were they ever apart at all?

TAP TAP.

Can the audience feel you now, banging on your own heart?

TAP TAP.

Is it wrong to wonder, to want, to plead

TAP TAP.

To be the drums?

Rat-tat-tat Rat-tat-tat.