Here's my poem for the week. I can play the piano. And I was like this when it came to playing for an audience. I still am. I don't play much anymore, but I hope to take up the hobby again.
The Recital
I sit down on the bench.
Nothing before me but ivory.
Eighty-eight keys of black and white.
The notes on the paper look like scribbles a three
year old drew.
Was this what I practiced?
Why do I always get nervous when playing for an
audience?
I feel like all I've learned is passing away before
me.
My palms are sweaty.
I pop my fingers again just to be sure I'm
prepared.
Like it's really going to make a difference.
Time is ticking.
People are whispering.
Silence is awkward.
...
Dammit.
...
...
Fine, I’ll play.
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