Jackeline Chacon Feb 2015
He played me piano
       He played me a song
       He played me a note
          Quite a bit wrong

       He played me here
       He played me there
       He played my body
     Like notes everywhere  

     I can't look at a piano
      Without dying inside
       You did things to me
            I have to hide

        He played me piano
        He played me a game
        He played my heart
           Oh what a shame

        He played me here
        He played me there
        He played me good
        Then pulled my hair

       I can't look at a piano
        Without crying inside
         I was falling in love
             I had to hide

        He played me piano
        He played me a song
        We played an affair
          Oh so very wrong  

         He played me here
         He played me there
         We played piano
              Everywhere
Margaret Jun 2014
My sister had a graduation party yesterday
And the fact that she's graduating high school and going to college
is a whole other emotional roller coaster for me.

But I've always been kind of glued to her at parties
we didn't really want to talk to anyone else
and now that shes leaving
I'm really going to have to talk a lot
so lets just say last night I talked a lot

With my mums mums side of the family I talked about the importance
and how big of a deal it is to quit smoking, and congratulated a my ex-aunt Chris on quitting for 2 years
She actually divorced with my uncle, so I have a new aunt
but they're all friends so its kind of cool.

After that she said that I understood more than I should for my age and called me an old soul
They're both kind of fluffy women
I don't know how to describe it, but I hope you get that.

I then talked to the woman next to her, who is my Aunt Andrea currently.
I talked about hair color and how Its interesting that Chris has a reddish mahogany dye in her hair for summer
and I suggested that she get some highlights
and she said that would be awesome

so then they thought I was a cosmetology expert and said I should do makeup and style
According to that I talked to my uncles girlfriend Cynthia about fashion
she is a stylist at Nordstrom, so we chatted about that a while.

So then I talked to my mums friends daughter Jaime
whose kind of a hippie
about how this guy in my family went to Woodstock a while ago
and how he married this Jamaican woman,
but they aren't allowed to come over because my dad picked sides,
and hes divorced and its confusing but..
She also wants to work at pixar so
I talked with her about graphic arts
and about the stupidity of selling a meaningless splash on a paper for lots of money
I also chatted with her about the mystery behind the painting
Las Meninas (Which means like ladies in waiting) by Diego Velazquez and all about the significance
of the focal point in the painting and vanishing point
And a whole bunch of other things about that painting that are very intriguing to me
I also let her know that my favorite paintings in the world would either be
"The Birth of Venus" or "The Death of Socrates" which is quite Ironic
and how I love all impressionist art.
So then she said I should be an art historian
I then saw my uncle on my Dads side
and he watched me sing a few weeks ago and he loved it
and was telling everyone i'm a musician...
ugh
then I talked to my dads dads side
about our family history a
and about my favorite type of dogs with my Dads cousins sons veterinarian girlfriend
she said I should be a vet
then I talked about the importance of justice and helping people
and the art of rhetoric while being a lawyer and persuasive speech,
to my dads cousins son
he said I should be a lawyer
my mums friend brought a ton of deviled eggs
I talked with her about how difficult they are to make
and that its such a tedious process, and I made the lemonade at the party
as well as the brownies with homemade caramel on them
so she said I should be a chef
and then my dad Bragged to his friends about how I write poetry on this site and have followers
so now i'm a poet and a writer
And you're probably completely bored with this poem.
which isn't much of a poem,
and I talked to even more people at the party
but
So now I'm an old soul, a cosmetology expert, an art historian, a musician, a vet, a lawyer, a chef, and a writer.

Okay.
Lets just say that i'm a good conversationalist.
Thats' all.
I'm not really totally interested in all of those things, I just can talk about them.
Though, if I had to choose one, I'd be a musician. Thats' what I want to do
Robert G Page Aug 2013
By
rgpage

The cool evening breeze filled with a scent of approaching rain.
Caught by playful window shears
As it passes through an open pane, to reach their  
length and breadth toward the waiting bed.

He was a lover of music and his woman,
a passionate man with a sensitive heart.
She was in love with the melodic way  
his gentle fingers moved with sensual touch
over her soft silk like skin of art.

He started gently around her ears softly prying
them open with the quiet richness of her melodies.
Each note of his gentle kisses leading her to a sensual abyss,
easing her down from the edge, controlling her descent, to her goal.
Down the swirling dark and light blends of the music rendered from her soul.

She was his instrument on which he placed
his soft loving fingers, moving them effortlessly,
caressing her most sensual delicate keys…Each body part
smoothly rubbed added richness to her sensual sound driven by lust
and loving trust.  

Her breasts he fondled, licking and kissing, squeezing and rubbing.
Silently giving thanks, to her creator for such an amazing instrument.
Both of her hands with long slender fingers tangled in the long dark locks
of his hair as she eases her maestro’s head up tighter against her soft
beautiful mounds.

The loving melody continues with his touch now joined with the sound
of raindrops splashing into uncovered metal buckets and cans. The drops
carried on the breeze through the playful dancing shears came through the other end as nothing more than refreshing cooling mist.

Her body was his loving piano, and as with the 88 keys of his magnificent
Baldwin, the sensual areas of her equally magnificent body, when properly stroked,  filled not  only the bedroom but the whole house with the most glorious erotic notes known to man.  

After a while the symphonic climax builds as he masterfully impales her with his instrument of love coming into constant contact with the one special key of keys. Its special sound as his strokes came harder and faster brought the whole master piece to a beautiful melodic end as the two lovers bath in the rain’s gentle mist…
Kirsty Mar 2015
A child, she sits at the piano,
exploring with modest fingers,
the anxious keys.
One day she'll play in church
but for now she'll play in the sea
and stick her tongue out in the rain.

A child watches the modest rain
kiss the window beside her piano.
An anxious sea
stirs in her fingers.
She falls asleep in church
and plays in the wrong key.

"Practice makes perfect, precision is key."
A child walks home in the rain,
and passes the church.
Her teacher has an old piano
that leaves dust on her fingers.
She washes them in the sea.

A girl is drowning in the sea
bare; like a single ivory key
He plays her with his fingers.
She loves him like the rain.
Her mother sold her piano,
when she stopped singing in church.

"I feel like an empty church;
a haunted sea;
a dusty piano
with no keys."
she says softly, to the rain
when he lets go of her fingers.

Reaching out these fingers
in an abandoned church,
the echoing rain
washes the roof in a sea
of chiming keys,
from an old piano.

A girl dips her fingers into the sea,
singing church hymns, out of key.
God plays the rain like a piano.
He tunes his piano
She ties her pointés.

He sits on his stool
She takes center-stage.

He plays the opening note
The spotlight flashes on her.

He can only hear the crowd's loud cheers
She can only see eyes upon her regal body.

He glues his eyes to his sheets
She fixes her mind upon her movements.

His fingers move mechanically along the keys
Her limbs sway to the tune of precise timing.

He has played this score hundreds of times
She has rehearsed her steps to faultless perfection.

He lets his memory guide his fingers
She lets her limbs free to do their own work.

He steals a glance at her
She opens her ears to lilting melody.

Those sheets of notes cease to exist;
He's busy composing his heart's birdsong.

She is no longer a puppet in the audience's hands
Her soul leaps joyfully towards new-found release.

She is his music
and he's her dance.
Samuel Sep 2011
Anne learned to play piano
At the tender age of four
Swore up and down
She'd leave that town
But never seemed too sure

Around her all the fellows
Would gather and they'd dance
For hours on end, she had a way
To put them in a trance

And that slight figure wobbled on
Until it was her time
To raise the curtains
Face the lights
And play like it's a crime
Joy May 2016
Jamming her fingers into the keyboard,
You would have thought that it was elastic -
You would have thought she was digging into her soul,
Searching for something stronger than this
Broken melody.
May, 2016
WistfulHope Oct 2014
One step ahead, and three steps left;
Sous sus, plié, and pirouette.
Let me dance adagio,
Will you play me the piano?
I can do chassé,
Float in bourrée,
Entechat, glissade...
Just play for me, if only once.
Shadow And A Dancer by The Fray kinda prompted this...
That, and I've been practicing pointe more than usual lately...
Harsh Oct 2012
S** un light gushing through the window on that summer afternoon, left me
A westruck as they bounced off your golden locks. You continued to create
M usic so surreal, I felt still asleep lost within a sweet dream.
U nleashing the darkest desires within my soul, you continued to
E ntrap me a little bit more every time we came into contact. Emotions,
L ost during my last battle with Cupid, were revived one by one.

R eality losing yet another battle with the phantom of the summer,
O ver-dozed on your boyish charms whilst suffering from an impatient heart.
W ild look in your eyes burns into mine, and as you speak I
L ong to kiss your lips with raving passion, hoping it would last an
E ternity and a little bit more. Maybe you will, maybe you won't, but just
S mile for now and play your music, 'cause it makes me "feel" again.
This poem is the sole property of me and cannot be copied or used without permission. [Copyright G.H. Rodrigo 27/08/2011]
Randi Williams Sep 2014
I was told to never fall in love with a writer.
But, a writer that recites his work with his hands is ten times more dangerous.
Eventually, you'll find yourself immensely fascinated by the veins that can play keys oh-so softly; soft enough to cradle an infant,
or even the aggressive way he fills your entire childhood bedroom with such impossible power and passion
in a single chord.
But, these hands are dangerous.
Just as they can hammer into the piano, his hands can rip through your heart. His hands will never just play your body simply black and white, oh no.
His hands will destroy you; each and every muscle movement will have you on edge and by the time the decrescendo drains the flood in your mind, it will be too late.
Never fall in love, period.
Robert Sep 2016
I slam the keys and shiver still,
They make me shake and break,
These keys they don't just make a sound,
It's memories they make.

Yet once a while I'll sit upright,
And play the keys so slow,
But this time there aren't memories,
It's just a concert show.
Anna Jan 2015
and her piano fingers fluttered
by and down the keys, like song-note leaves
on an indifferent autumn breeze, making
birds out of the music trembling
within the ivory beast before her;
she was a paper doll and it was raining,
she was moving like possession
but she was her own exorcist
and the demons were beautiful.
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