I am a pianist,
Fingers moving across the keys rapidly,
Melodious sound filling my ears,
A crowd of people cheering my name.
I could be a pianist.
I could compose something beautiful,
And I could showcase it to the world
Where I would touch the hearts of everyone.
I am not a pianist.
My fingers don't move fast enough,
The keys only click and clack,
And what I create is not to be heard.
I am a writer.
My work isn't a song,
But maybe someone will read it
And hear music in it.
I am a writer.
Fingers moving across the keys rapidly,
Melodious sound filling my ears,
A crowd of people awaiting my next piece.
YOU ARE READING
Pretending to be Bukowski: A Poem Collection
PoezieA collection of poems by me. Only posting the ones I find are the best. Warning: many have harsh language or explicit content and may be triggering to some. There is also a lot of angst, sadness, anger, etc.
