With pursed lips and furrowed brow,
She screeches with blithe abandon,
Blowing into a black-lacquered stick,
Wiggling its silver keys and giving
Blustery birth to a treble-making,
Terrible-two-beat audible offspring.

Buried deep inside the orchestra pit,
Her abused instrument screams and
Squeaks in agony-- music to her tone-
Deaf ears. An avalanche of hyper-
Perfectionist judgement pours down
Onto her, but still she chirps

Without apology; a smug, self-satisfied
Smile sketches misshapen bar-lines
Across her puffed-out cheeks:
She's proud of her progress, but I'd
Rather not regress my skill to
Accommodate for her lack thereof.

When it comes time for me to sink
With her into the pit, I cannot find a place
To sit because my high-horse won't fit
Down in that den of spite and spit.
I refuse to permit her oblivious inexperience
To ruin everything I have worked so tirelessly for.

Lights. Curtain. The conductor's tensed arms--
We are frozen by anticipation and expectation.
His arms bounce once-- the orchestra sparks to life.
To my dismay, a squeak. A screech. A smile.
My fingers fly; my technique is flawless, my notes on-pitch.
But despite this, I am perfectly inaudible.

Mediocre passion overshadows learned perfection;
I realize that she is not the problem here.
My temples pulse with unreasonable stress.
I am tooting my own horn too bombastically--
Taking this whole event far too seriously.
Suddenly, my vice-grip loosens. I relax,

Let the music of the moment whisk me away
Until the rhythm on the page meld with the beats
Within my chest, my heartstrings sing with a melody
Heretofore unheard. The turgid, competitive atmosphere
Slinks away, ashamed, as I finally open myself to
The confident freedom of imperfection.