the silver cuddled 10

Painted black, with hints of steel, she stares at them, frozen on keys.
The nails which click on keys of kinds;
her piano, her computer, her desk when she thinks.
She'll stare until they say what she's thinking,
she'll stare until they play what she's feeling.
She'll stare, because they know what to do,
but she herself never does.

They seem to be a mere extension,
with more than just mobility.
They clear her head of what she never knew was there,
they make her expression a possibility.
Bedazzled in polish,
and cuddled by silver,
these fingers of hers,
gracefully dance to talk to you.
happily tap to make words come true.
fluidly graze the surface of her medium
to write, to create music, to think of her next move.

Lately lacking the inspiration,
she finds her spot,
her ledge if you will,
where she feels she can just fall into grace
and let her words come through.
Without thought.
without backspace.
without a doubt that all she says is true.


So many ways to express herself,
but 10 fingers is so few.


she knows something she shouldn't,
or feels is wrong to know.
she knows why the sudden willingness,
because she relates, so.