knee deep in flowers

Sometimes it is anguish, the feeling that I have to keep learning the same lessons over and over, the wail of despair, the whywhywhy, the gut punch of it. I will never be any good at this, I will never be any good, and I want to smash my body into a wall, my clumsy hands into pulp, it just seems pointless to keep trying. I'm right back to dancing with myself, slowly, and it's horrible. 

And sometimes it is just exasperating, to see in my mind who I want to be and yet not become that person. I say to my heart: rave on! But my heart can barely pull at the right strings. Thick fingers and tongue fumbling lost and hopeless, my mouth that cannot form the words, not even nonsense words and sleeping lions; at best I will only ever be able to articulate exactly what I am doing, which lacks poetry. 

But sometimes, sometimes, blessed, I realize that while I am not who I want to be, I am getting better, stronger, that same lesson over again is awful but it snaps into place faster, the rhythm is better, and I can even sing a radio war, the missed chord shorter and I keep on playing, I play right past it.