When I was a child,
I would weave simple tunes.
Growing up, it was habit
That I would find myself
Going back to these tunes
I spun out of my fingers
On to the ivory keys
Whenever the occasion needed it.
Happy, sad, angry,
For self or for show,
When I sat down in front of the piano,
My fingers would find solace
And my mind will be at peace.
My heart would beat along
To the melodies I played along to
And crafted on the whim.
My parents would applaud me,
My friends amazed by me
Everyone liked my talent
But was that how they saw me?
Just someone who was good at something?
I cry because it feels mechanical.
Sometimes I, myself, don’t know
What I’m feeling inside.
Soon melodies became attached
To painful memories that may seem
Inconsequential and even
Nonsensical for me to consider
The tunes as something unlikeable.
But many had a bittersweet tone to it
Sometimes, forced and angry
Very soon, the worst happened to me.
As the years passed, my love decreased
Growing cold and brittle like ice shards.
Now when my fingers touch the keys
I cry because nothing comes out, even mechanical.
Of the passion that’s been left dying.
My hands shake as my brain taunts me.
“You’ll never be as good as before.
You’ve lost your passion.”