I strive to be just like
A piano-ist.
I attempt to strike
Keys like rhythmic-ists.
And the fortune in
The cookie I have picked
Describes my fate just
Like a pessimist.

It’s called a living
I was told.
And it has nothing
To, for, or unfolding
The precious meaning
Of what it is it is
And I guess it will
Just continue.

It is
A
Nervous reaction to better days.
It is
A
Common misconception
Of
“What were better days
What was better than this?”

Lasers I heard exist.
Firing tunes just like a piano-ist.
But they, I heard, do not always fix
What they’re supposedly to have fixed. Or I’ve
Mixed it up with some other thing
Some other kind of forbearance
Of
Who we are and
What we came from.

I am the piano-ist.
I discourage this.
I pound the keys with my
Piano-ed fists.
And every reaction
You claim to contribute
To my mellow tune
For melancholy you.

I’m an abject observer.
A note that rings fervor.
A hitch in the get-along.
A smile to confirm that.
I cannot conceive this
I may just be over it.
But I’ll still strike the keys
Like a piano-ist.