I dreamt I could play the piano. Melodies, symphonies pouring outta me. Then I woke up to be dumb & forgetful. A sufferer of bouts of poetry. Maybe something still won't flow. All stops & starts inside my head. Wishing for the confidence to be whole. Not quite sure if it will be safe & sane. I wish I could play the piano. And sing for the heart-aching souls. Can't help but reject the sentimental. "It's not original, all played out & sold." What good is a piano made outta wood. Taunt strings ready to strike sounds hollow. Still I play the piano with scores old. Something about them helplessly beautiful. It's to be played when truly alone. Someone overhears, it dies & be reborn. When the keys pressed it's the ultimate quiet. Under the cover hides thunders & hurricanes. All the players grudgingly dwelled then left. Maybe next life I will have the steady hands.