Someone once told me

That life is like a piano,

Well,

Also like a box of chocolates,

But that's not important,

What is important,

Is how you play the piano.

 

The white keys,

to me anyways,

Are like the bird song in the morning,

Or frolicking in the buttercups,

Or exploring the maze of trees just behind your house,

Or the freedom of dancing in the rain,

Or the adventure of a book.

 

While the black ones,

resonate with something deeper,

Like the vultures circling the sun,

Or when winter comes,

And you can no longer play in the flowers and visit your house in the branches.

Or the responsibility of growing up,

Or returning from an adventure empty-handed.

 

Because of this,

Some people play their pianos safe,

Using only the whitest of keys.

I’ve found that many people are very particular about this,

But they’re piano spits out blander music that seems hollow.

And empty.

And no one seems to listen to it.

But, somehow it fits in.

 

Others still play it safe,

Using mainly white keys,

Not caring if they’re off-white or not.

But they like to play it like they’ve been set free of the small cages,

That had once held them back.

Yet, they’re music is still trapped,

Within it’s own little cage,

It’s wings are clipped,

But it can still fly.

Kind of.

 

Still others play the piano like it is another one of their toys,

Ignoring the white keys,

And painting them over with whatever color they so desire,

Heck,

They may have even ordered a special piano from Amazon,

One that is completely devoid of all white keys,

and black ones too.

Of course,

The piano doesn’t like this very much,

But it has no choice but to obey.

After all,

It is a piano.

 

And still others,

(I know, there's a lot)

Play the piano,

Maybe not as confident as everyone else,

Maybe not as perfection seeking as everyone else,

Maybe not even looking to fit in,

Like,

Everyone,

Else.

  

But they play it like a pirate.

 

Or an explorer,

Or an artist,

Or a writer,

Or just however they want to,

Or however they want it to sound.

 

They play they’re music with the white keys,

But also,

The black ones.

And, let me tell you,

That music,

THAT music,

Even this poem wouldn’t do them justice.

 

No, let me restate that,

This poem,

Try as I may,

Could never compare to the music,

But try as it may,

The music could never compare to the composer.