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Piano Lesson
I found the first five stanzas scrawled in my graphpaper, and I decided to finish it. I haven't decided if I like it or not yet.
Adjust the bench, now.
So the edge is even with your knees.
Only perfect posture is acceptable.
Open the book and read.
Always think about your piece before you play it.
*~
I can't see anything, the light is gone.
I sink to my knees and double over
in pain and in tears.
Choking, embarassed, hating myself.
I can't get up by myself.
*~
Press your fingers as you play,
notice your thumb hurts. Must be a hangnail.
Your subconscious processes what you see,
and you don't have to think.
Your heart is what's playing.
*~
The mindless walk past, ignoring you.
Pretending they know what's wrong and how to fix it.
They don't feel the cuts, the wounds, the pain.
They don't care what you're feeling. They just want you to get up.
"Stop it, you're embarassing me."
*~
The song flows more freely
The music is crying.
Blood is left on the keys from your thumb.
But the song isn't over yet.
Blood can be wiped away, and the stark black and white will remain.
*~
Poignant, mournful, sobbing.
It's so blatantly obvious,
and you do nothing to hide it.
Yet, no one stops, everyone keeps walking.
They see, they wince, and they ignore.
*~
It's a crescendo now,
and the song is swelling.
Your thumb is throbbing and you ignore it.
"A pianist must have discipline."
If you don't acknowledge the pain, maybe you won't feel it.
*~
It's lonely down here,
but not much can be done about that.
Nobody's there to catch you,
and nobody's there to help you up, either.
And there is no last ludicrously hopeful line.
*~
The song ends with a mournful recap of the beginning,
only it's more simple, more beautiful.
You wipe the blood off the keys, and it comes off surprisingly easily.
And now the music is just a memory,
and no one could possibly understand.
*~
All you really have is yourself,
and whatever you can do to make your time worthwhile, you'd better do it.
Nobody's ever going to understand and nobody's coming to rescue you.
There is no hope, except that which comes from
going on.
Adjust the bench, now.
So the edge is even with your knees.
Only perfect posture is acceptable.
Open the book and read.
Always think about your piece before you play it.
*~
I can't see anything, the light is gone.
I sink to my knees and double over
in pain and in tears.
Choking, embarassed, hating myself.
I can't get up by myself.
*~
Press your fingers as you play,
notice your thumb hurts. Must be a hangnail.
Your subconscious processes what you see,
and you don't have to think.
Your heart is what's playing.
*~
The mindless walk past, ignoring you.
Pretending they know what's wrong and how to fix it.
They don't feel the cuts, the wounds, the pain.
They don't care what you're feeling. They just want you to get up.
"Stop it, you're embarassing me."
*~
The song flows more freely
The music is crying.
Blood is left on the keys from your thumb.
But the song isn't over yet.
Blood can be wiped away, and the stark black and white will remain.
*~
Poignant, mournful, sobbing.
It's so blatantly obvious,
and you do nothing to hide it.
Yet, no one stops, everyone keeps walking.
They see, they wince, and they ignore.
*~
It's a crescendo now,
and the song is swelling.
Your thumb is throbbing and you ignore it.
"A pianist must have discipline."
If you don't acknowledge the pain, maybe you won't feel it.
*~
It's lonely down here,
but not much can be done about that.
Nobody's there to catch you,
and nobody's there to help you up, either.
And there is no last ludicrously hopeful line.
*~
The song ends with a mournful recap of the beginning,
only it's more simple, more beautiful.
You wipe the blood off the keys, and it comes off surprisingly easily.
And now the music is just a memory,
and no one could possibly understand.
*~
All you really have is yourself,
and whatever you can do to make your time worthwhile, you'd better do it.
Nobody's ever going to understand and nobody's coming to rescue you.
There is no hope, except that which comes from
going on.