Somehow my poetry feels like a drunken pianist fell off a chair.
Wildly in love, yet unable to express a single note.
Every tone send in one direction, yet smashing into the walls.
Growing impatient to see a reaction, grabbing a bottle of wine of the piano, sipping and more and more slipping.
Whatever he has to loose, is not his soul.
So when he falls, he gets back up and plays again, knowing he might not win, the soul he’s targeting.
It’s not a game, but an art of sorts.
It’s lusting after what he might never get.
And hey, self irony is also ok.
I’m in a peculiar mood today.