I am a piano playing perfectionist.

I wonder if perhaps Carnegie Hall has a place in my future.
I hear the notes swimming across the room, leaping off walls and replaying in my ears.
I want to reach deep into the sheet and cushion myself among the quarter-notes.
I am a piano playing perfectionist.

I pretend that I’m on a stage with soft, dim lights.
I feel my sweaty palms ready themselves, preparing for the pounce.
I touch the keys embarking on my musical journey of sounds, patterns, and melodies.
I worry, have I missed a note or struck a foul chord?
I cry in thought of a forgotten pedal.
I am a piano playing perfectionist.

I understand my piece may not be perfect as I play.
I say I’ll devote myself to practicing. (But often I forget)
I dream someday I’ll be Bach-worthy, famous in the eyes of music.
I try harder when my callused fingers won’t obey my pleading commands.
I hope piano-deprived will never be on my agenda.
I am a piano playing perfectionist.