Music isn't enough to concentrate on
because it leaves room for my mind to wander;
the 88 keys are much wider than me
but musical fingers can't fill my head.

Inside there, things stretch out in never-ending pitches
both too high and too low to be heard,
just close enough to average
that the noises tear at my bubbling, frothing ear drums.

In my head, music does not belong
in this pre-determined, allowable range I'm supposed to conform to
without ever giving a thought
to stretching beyond what's been set out for me.
maybe I want to take middle C down an octave today,
just so it matches the tone of your voice when you say
"It's okay, because I love you anyway"
And I wish more than anything that you meant it.

Every time my left hand creeps above centre,
I ache for the low and resonating bass sound.
I need you there
but you're not there, and alone thin treble will snap
because this heart weighs too much for my threadlike strings to bear.

I play G minor harmonic scales on autopilot
until I'm done composing.
I don't even realize I'm doing it
because music doesn't occupy my mind;
it shifts onto the back burner
and wiggles over to make room for the thoughts
I've been trying so hard to keep out.

Running fingers up and down
the ebonies and ivories
has created some kind of electricity
in my hands, or maybe in my head.
I pound out the thoughts
onto a rather different type of keyboard
and instead of chords,
poetry escapes my fingertips.