True Love
When I haven't slept well in days
And I'm well into a haze,
at the piano I will gaze
with disdain and amaze.
The incomplete alphabet
repeated over and over
and the manufacturing of this device
still floors me through and through.
I can't help but feel small sitting on the bench,
the wood beneath, in front and inside.
Maybe I am made of wood, and someday I'll compose a song.
I have sat sweat-drenched, furrow-browed, and bug-eyed
And made the keys weep so I'm not the one who cried.
Swirled drinks in my throat til they flushed like worries
til the blood in my head swam down through my neck.
And I've woken beside wood with no memories to my name.
drunk off more than just alcohol's stain.
I've thought to myself no never again
but tonight I will beat the sweet ivories
and punish the keys so they can't punish me.
Call the tuner in the morning to fix all broken strings.
Maybe tomorrow I will finally sing.
