I was bothered by a pianist who makes mistakes, but his response changed my attitude.
But of him no songs will be sung.
You see, he did not play as well
As Chopin, Liszt, or Pachelbel.
His fingers often missed the key
And as I heard him it irked me.
“Why can’t you get it right?” I howled,
For such great music he had fouled.
He chuckled with remorse inside.
I saw that I had dinged his pride.
The gleeful music stopped.
“My music is a sort of prayer,”
He stated with an awkward stare.
“I play because it heals my soul.
It brings me peace. It makes me whole.
I may not practice it just right,
But, as you listen, you just might
Find in yourself a happy tune.
It’s worked for me. It should for you.”
He motioned then for me to sit,
His youthful eyes with life alit.
“With such a voice, you must sing well.
I’ll play. You’ll sing. It’ll be real swell.
I joined in his cacophony.
The strangest feeling grew in me.
The boy was right: my sorrows fled
As horrid sounds escaped my head.
We must have musicked for an hour.
He’d captured me by some odd pow’r.
I said goodbye and walked away.
It was not he who erred that day.
He knew the reason that he played:
Not for prestige or money made.
He played, and prayed, day after day
To take the sting of life away.
So, as you make mistakes in life
Do not let it give your heart strife,
But grin, and mess up clear and loud.
Just play, for mistakes are allowed.