No one knows me like the piano does.
What's buried in my chest
is a forest unexplored,
untamed and spotted with strange light.
There are creatures there
from many places and
some of them look like demons of this world.
No one knows me like the rain does.
I've walked
purposefully with it
thousands of time
and I daresay it knows me better than anyone.
It has felt my scars and wondered where they came from,
not just that they are there.
It talks with me for hours.
No one knows me the way my pillow does
as it has carried
all my tears
and never once begged me to stop, pleading with me to control myself with those selfish eyes of external affairs
that are far, far from me.
If I holler let me know.
When the tears follow hold me down.
If I falter let me go.
I don't want to swim forever,
but it seems I have no choice.
None at all.
I've curled into myself more than
I care to admit
and not all of those curls were selfish.
I'm just alone sometimes. And
sometimes, I'm always alone.
No one knows me like the piano does
in my mother's home.
The bitter thoughts I've pressed into it like a needle with hot tears and trembling, aching rage.
Years of doubt pouring over
its innocent white teeth
and I wonder
from time to time if
there's blood on those white teeth that
tastes and smells
like my own.
The piano, the pillows, the walls, the headphones
they've all seen the worst and the best of me.
They know me best.
So why do I feel so unknown?
Surely God knows me.
Perhaps I'm merely beneath the covers
trying to grow like roots,
but find no soil.
Perhaps the piano knows
my pain is good
and tells me to whisper.
Listen.
Rather than play.
Feb. 23, 2017
Thurs.
9:58pm
