It just sits there quiet,
not allowed to be what it was made to be,
to do what it was made to do.
Only used to copy, never to create.
Sometimes I wonder if it was alive, what it would think of me.
Gazing at me going back and forth, wondering why I avoid it so.
Wondering why I try and pretend it isn’t a part of me…
That we go together like a painter and his brush.
A writer and his pen, a craftsman and his tools…
Then there were those rare nights when I couldn’t fight any longer
I’d sit over it… and weep, leaving only tears behind without melody
I become discouraged that my heart’s song cannot be translated
That it always seems to become cheapened when audible
And that its output is limited by my talents.
For it relies on me just as much as I rely on it.
Its mere presence in a room reminds me of who I am
Yet I turn my back on what I need to be me daily
Oh how pain and joy, despair and hope, and shame and atonement can come hand in hand
Me and my piano…
