Humble pianist, not so grand
With her soft and silken hands
She plays a different kind of key
Not your grandmother’s ivory,
But something entirely
Different.
Her notes are lucid
And spontaneous.
Her facts are wild
And erroneous.
Her keyboard is,
Not one that sings
But one that weaves
Such trivial things.
She births not art
Musically
Her notes are letters
“A” through “Z”.
Her works are neither
Sung nor Heard
She’s an artist of
The written word.
When in the night,
They’ve taken flight;
Hooting
Empathetic owls.
For in the night
Is when she writes,
Her passion
Most marvelous and foul.
She clicks and types,
Screams and cries
Her perseverance almost dies.
Her eyes are calloused
Raw and sore
Her computer screen is what she scorns.
And this must be
For it is she,
Who plays these notes so
Brilliantly.
And with her keys
Most endlessly
She writes her laptop poetry.