When look to my right
and see that pile of books,
all the same odd yellow color
with that orderly green writing,
I remember something.
Remember isn't the word,
its more of a stirring in my soul
something regaining purpose
that had been lost
or forgotten
or put in a box
and shoved in a closet.

To spite you I stopped.
Froze it in time
because it wasn't "practical"
or useful
or going to help me with my future goals.
Really I wanted you to know
that you didn't control me
that I didn't value what you said
even when deep down I know you are right
I know I am wasting away
without this thing
that I thought was worthless.

I walk
almost run
down the stairs and out the doors
past the lake
and the chain link fence
impatiently open my door
because the key is too slow.
I throw the shackles of my creativity,
the books that keep me grounded,
to the ground and reach for those others
up on the highest shelf.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Not anymore.

I look into windows
down all the hallways
looking for and empty room
just one
thats all I need.
Finally,
the worst one
but it will do
yes
so long as I can play
play the piano
it will do.

I will always do.