He sits on the bare black stool
Fingertips grazing the black and white keys
With a nervous sigh, he lifts the first finger
The first note is pressed into the air where it lingers
His fingers move like clockwork across the icy keys
His toes tap against the petal beneath
The music flows
The pianist's face seems to glow
Fingers fly faster,
Notes come sharper,
But this isn't to please.
And when he lifts his fingers from the keys,
He lets out a sigh: long and low.
And when his finger strikes the wrong note,
He begins to quiver
But the crowd doesn't know.
When he is done,
He bows
Fingers still shaking
And music still flowing
No one knows the feeling of music like the Pianist knows.
*********************
^First poem in a while. I'm not too good at poems. I know it's not good, but I like this one. I play the piano sometimes, although I'm not good at all.
If any of you are interested, I have a prompt book up now if you're ever in need of any ideas.
