My feeble hands pick up the bow,

Mechanically, the bow hits the strings of my giant whopping instrument I hide behind,
I close my weary eyes and suddenly a crescendo,
I am one with my instrument it sings what I have been yearning to say,
The melancholic tone drowns out the audience, the prelude has begun,
My fingers dance across the slim neck of the cello and every note sounds perfect intonation is complete,
The room is filled with the sound of sweet vibrato,
Sounds of sadness dance across the room, nothing but the drone of the sorrowful instrument remain,
Exactly as one was taught it all comes out,
“A prodigy!” the crowd beams,
The piece moves flowingly, the audience begins to cry,
I comprehend that it is not them but I-crying,
A coldness overcomes me,
I escape the zone,
My wrists cramp, every note is not what it should be,
My fingertips once well calloused begin to bleed,
There goes a decrescendo
The bow is on the ground,
Shaking, my hands are stiff, the tears trickle onto the well lacquered wood,
A scream escapes me and now my bloody fingers stick to my cheeks,
Slowly falling, my cello is on the ground,
I am beside it sobbing and thinking this is it the finale,
I can no longer do what I once did,
My voice taken away, my sanity is taken aback at what I can no longer perform,
Taken away painfully,
I realized silently that this performance
would be the end.