My hands are tired and sore.

Strings make lined bruises,

Bruises make little mouths

Little mouths make me crazy.

If they could talk, they wouldn't.

They would laugh at my:

Clenched teeth

Angry eyebrows

Aggressive hair flipping every 5 seconds

Loud, obnoxious racket

Of course when I start back up,

My voice is hoarse and congested

So all I have to notice is:

The ache in my hands

The burning frustration in my heart

My lack of patience

My failures

My too-long nails

But then...

In the midst of the storm,

Is a beautiful melody

And even my voice

With some water,

Can sound good

And the storm is gone

For now...