Thursday, March 12, 2009

The Pianist - a poem

For all of you who spend hours a day sitting before the keys:


Your body aches
From sitting long,
Bored from telling,
the fingers their wrongs.

Those tiny limbs,
they tire of the nagging,
And slowly worn,
begin their lagging.

Your body sweats,
Your hands are cold.
The tiniest finger,
Its own barely can hold.

The keys, all black and white,
begin to look the same,
And as your eyes do blur,
so do the notes upon the page.

But when all is accomplished,
And you fall into your bed,
You know you're a pianist,
And with that, enough said!

Written today after a lengthy stay on the piano bench.


1 comment:

Mariah said...

That's cool! I kind of know what you mean, I've practiced lots today but all in short time segments. :)