Piano… that volatile instrument eludes me.
I try to master the 88 keys, but my fingers do not stretch far enough.
My eyes cannot interpret the sheet music as fast as I need.

I try to enjoy the music I make, but it is impossibly far from perfect.
That rhythm is simple. I should be able to play it.
That’s a D flat not a D natural; how could you be so foolish?

I curse myself for my disjointed songs and the pauses I take for corrections:
There is no flow. No soft movement like a river. No melody to lose yourself in--
Only jarring chords and frustrated frowns.

Yet I still try.

Practice, practice, practice.
“You can’t be good if you don't try!”
But I’ve tried since I was young.

I dream of beautiful songs in great halls;
I yearn to fill rooms with blossoming rhythms and bewitching movements,
Lovely, unbroken, enchanting.

That dream will never be mine.
The keys refuse to heed my will.
My desire to enrapture crowds with my music will never come to fruition.

This creeping realization agonizes me.
Each failed attempt pushes me deeper into misery.
I need to give up before I break down,

Before it destroys me.