Oct 29

I Hold On

When I play the piano 
It is like a torture of the sweetest and yet most cruel kind
As I can not play it
Fast enough to stop the burning in my fingers
That can never stop moving
Twitching
Tearing the paper in my pocket into shreds
And trying 
Over
And 
Over 
Again
To pour my heart into the old cracked ivory.
To catch up with my mind. 
The fingers on my left hand
Are calloused from the strings
Of my guitar, 
The pain that I felt when I was first learning,
When my fingers were not used to the bite and dig of the strings,
Is gone, though not much missed,
For the pain was the one thing that stopped my fingers
From drumming
From digging
From burning
And the burning is the one thing
That makes me keep playing 
Creating
I must play until I have nothing left
Until I stop ticking
Ticking
Ticking my life away
In front of the piano which will never stop burning
And beneath the guitar in which I cannot live without. 
This is what my hands are here for
To torture me into existence
And to create things that will destroy me

And yet it is by the silk of the keys
And the bite of the strings
That 

Hold
On