there is nothing quite like playing the piano.
feeling the ivory beneath your fingers and gazing along the endless row of keys,
fingertips dancing across black and white,
sitting at the bench and feeling as if you have the whole world beneath your hands.

and at the same time, it is so daunting.
you are in front of a crowd, and they are watching so intently,
yet you feel as if you are somewhere else, somewhere far away.
and it is just you and the piano, the emotion pouring from one source to another.

it is so nostalgic.
family members at Christmas, playing carols; guests tend to gravitate towards the instrument.
little Polish tunes being played with liveliness; you can hear the accordion from the other room
and your grandmother still plays Chopin, after all these years, after so much pain and arthritis

but it is timeless.
the struggles, fears, and triumphs all seem to be continuously poured into the same instrument,
and it takes it all in. it repeatedly absorbs the emotions of those who dare to touch its keys.
and as i continue forth with my career, i say
there is nothing quite like playing the piano.

we hung out without you for the first time today.
i had another fight with alex, you would've thought it was hilarious
and you probably would've backed me up.
i don't know why i'm putting this here, it's not even poetry
but i don't have anywhere else,
i don't have anyone else

I had once said that I never wanted to see you again.
"Just one more year," I had said, "And I'll never have to see him again."
But then things happened.
We grew closer, we grew stronger.

And now I find myself needing you,
Hanging on to the hope of seeing you again
And I wonder what happened.
When was I right? Was I ever even close?

And when I look up at the stars at night, it reminds me of how much you love them.
How you would tell me about every single one and I would pretend like I didn't know anything because honestly, I just liked to listen.

And I would give anything to go back.
The height of July, the heat laying heavy on my chest
And the constellations, scattered on your skin and in your eyes
And my lungs, collapsing with every breath

why do you have to laugh like that and smile like that and why are your eyes the prettiest colour ever known to man it is just so frustrating

dying to live
living to die

*******
why are you so nice to me
when i am so *******
mean to you

an actual line from a poem i wrote over a year ago:
*I couldn't help but blush, you arrogant *******.

the oceans in your eyes
will always draw me near
and i know that i can't swim
but i would like to sink to the bottom
and feel my lungs inflate
to compensate for the air i've lost

but why do i like you.
why do i give a ****.
i shouldn't give two *****, and yet here i am.
to know that i'll be seeing you tomorrow drives me crazy,
but knowing that i'll never see you again in a year drives me insane.

you remind me of so much dumb ****.
it's sappy **** and i don't like it.
my poems are literally vents there's no art here.

and i'm sorry for being such a ******* disappointment.
i guess i'm glad we were a little close last year.
**** i **** *** but you **** more.