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The Piano

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88 keys
But not everything is black-and-white.
My teacher, the piano.
Parents, siblings, family
Are scales and chords
Assigned to me by God
Little mistakes make all the difference
When they are disappointed.
Unchosen, routine, and steady enough
If I play it right--technique
Not artistry.
Improvisation, a stranger to me
New experiences and experiments
Fighting for the spot
At the back of my brain.
As it has been said,
One plum short of a fruit pie.
The waltz, a word that melts on my tongue
Is my romance, moving
Slowly, and blending with the
Paintbrush of pedal.
I'm no good at it yet,
So I don't play Chopin in front of
Other people.
Despite all the beauty
There is maturity involved
For which I am not ready.
Fur Elise is my faded friendships;
Minor-keyed, with infrequent
Uplifts that make my heart,
A bird,
To soar.
I'm sad at the drawn-out, quiet end
It's always the same.
The solfegietto is elegance
My best friend of all
A bit confused and somewhat
Sarcastic
Deeply layered, like a face
Under a mask
One I want to emulate
Nonetheless.
I play it well, and easily,
Whenever I want
Always there for me, and never
Changing too much
Except years ago, before which
She would have been a pop song.
The sonata friends are close to me.
Together, we can be harmony
Rough patches are practiced
Little trills can be mastered
Ending up in G major at the end.
The drama, transparent
And yet I'm not close enough.
The Kabalevsky is change.
I used to hate the dissonance
Of "new beginnings"
(Meaning something horrible)
High school, a friend leaving
In tarot words, Death.
But it's a lively circle
Hardly static, but unyielding to me yet.
It makes you forget about Karma
And forces childish innocence
This piece is not played, it is felt
88 keys, every one gray.
And I can't get enough of
My life, the piano.



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