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Burn Up the Keys
Fingers aching to melt the keys
Piano lying under the weight of my soul
Composition scratched, enigmatic release
A pillow to cushion the world and it's blows
Mozart alive in the pulse in my wrist
Chopin in nocturnes sings me to sleep
Liszt, Clementi, and Beethoven too
shoulder the weight of my soul on the move
You'd call me eccentric if I told you the truth-
These keys are the link to my fountain of youth
They bring me back home to 14th street in summer
Practicing under the eyes of my mother
Watching the trees sway out the living room window
Feeling the music like a youth, only bigger
Holding the memory of notes like dear friends
Nervous performer from the start to the end
And now, mundane life wrenches me from the past
I barely brush dust from the keys and collapse
My wrists ache from working without any fruits
And you'd call me eccentric if I told you the truth-
For right at the moment I leave her behind
I pine for the freedom, enigmatic release
I can't get the music of Bach from my mind
As my fingers are itching to burn up the keys...
Copyright ©
Tatyana Carney
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