The Piano

My heart has become an empty room of sorts
walls high and stark white with only one very small window
the type of place people who've been in dread
the type of place that makes someone crazy with anxiety
they pull at their hair and scratch at their skin in angst
a place where the ones that don't go crazy are fascinated by it
a place to visit and revisit and leave once they have their fill
once the intensity becomes less so
carrying away pieces of my life like trophies from a gift shop

the keys on this piano are old and broken there are few that can still make the music play here...
the rest, they take their photographs and paint their pictures and call it beautiful
then leave it to decompose with the rest of the used up and worn out.