(This poem was hastily written on my iPhone in complete and utter frustration while I sat at the piano. I was preparing for the AZ Young Artists' Piano Competition at the time.)
Why is Time so difficult to endure
When I attempt to practice?
I yearn to reach the final shore;
Get the grade, make the team,
Make the money, get the prize.
I want to reach that shore and be safe
Yet I cannot when I practice.
The finish lines are infinite; Excellence is a lifelong pursuit.
My brain is aching
From the constant pressure of my doubts and wonderings
Where must I go?
Why am I striving for this?
What must I do
To get this measure perfect
And this run even
And this melody flawless
Who must I become?
What is my purpose?
When will the end come
Where I perfect the measure
And nail the run each time
And beautify the melody
I sit there in front of the piano staring
At the black and white and black and white
Notes and keys, familiar to me.
I stand on the shore.
It is time to begin my practice,
Yet Time is a shallow sea of mud;
I cannot see the other side,
Yet I am compelled to walk through it.
I want to reach the opposite shore of Time's mud bog
I want to conquer it;
Get the grade, make the team,
Make the money, get the prize.
I slide in and begin to walk.
Knee deep in thick sludge
I move with heaving and groaning
And each step nearly yanks my legs out of their sockets,
Mud sucking and squelching.
I am covered in the slime already
I squint in an attempt to view the other side of the brown
And black and white
Sea of mud that is Time to practice
I continue pulling and trudging in agony
I continue drilling measures and reviewing specific passages
I am now too tired to go on,
My muscles and mind aching.
I twist around to see the shore I have come from;
I expect to have traveled miles and hours.
Only 20 feet lay between myself and that first shore -
Only an hour of practicing has transpired -
I am done. That was seemingly all for naught.
Where is the prize of my labors?
Why have I exhausted myself so early in my efforts?
I trudge on.