It lazes on the music stand, dangling its
Feet, laughing heartily at its ability to
Frighten me. Another day waltzes past,
And another potential practice session drops
Shamelessly into the black pit that beams with many
Similar days. My hands feel dry and stiff–
A physical reminder plowing through my mental barricades
That tell me practicing is optional—a mere choice,
Just like eating or setting out on a jog.
The score, ferocious in all its presto-filled
Glory, lies open atop the piano, emitting
Vibrations of guilt each time I saunter past.
Oh, the respect it demands of each of its
Victims… its willing, frighteningly obsessed
Victims.
Purple Pen 