My turn to go up next.
The teacher glances toward me and nods.
I grab my instrument and walk to the front of the room.
A chair and stand awaits me.
I set the sheet music on the stand and take a seat.
"Whenever you're ready," he says.

I lift the french horn to my face and pause.
I remember the people before me who went,
eyes full of fear.
Hoping with every ounce of their soul
that they won't mess up.
My chest constricts tightly.
I struggle to take a breath, then begin.

The first note is perfectly on pitch.
So far, so good.
The phrase flows smoothly.
The piece goes well,
until I take a risky glance around the classroom.

A knot forms in my stomach.
Everyone is looking at ME.
Expecting ME to do well.
My fingers fumble as I miss a note.
I panic and rush the rhythms,
not caring if I miss the pitch.
I just want this TORTURE to be over.

Their gazes are icy.
The piece ends and I swiftly let my instrument down.
I hang my head low.
The ones before me look grim.
Surely I had disappointed them

The director says nothing.
The silence is KILLING me.
I feel my face flushing red.
The room is getting warmer.
"Next?" He asks, prying that I should take my spot.
I get up and take my things,
then do exactly that.

The next person plays perfectly.
I applaud with tear-stained hands.
They are praised well as they walk to their seat,
beaming in glory.

Who am I to pretend
that I understand this madness
called success?

imagine a calloused doubt.
cracked, chipped, clicking
like warped wooden floorboards.
soft from overuse
but still overrides willpower
in one palpitating breath.
grimy yet illusive
like your teeth after a day’s work,
collecting gunk that sidles up
to calcium companions,
crunching down on things
that become
so bland in the end.
doubt is offbeat,
monstrous footsteps hidden deep
off beaten paths,
its thudding is clammy and hurried,
aligned to the discordant jazz of
your alarmed body.
it tastes like
coppery heartbeats,
rising bile,
salt and mucus in the back of your throat.
it is a truly uncomfortable thing.
it stacks sweetly like buttercream pancakes
but crumbles you
with such a sour taste on your tongue.
imagine an agony that loves you.

Every breath I take reeks of calamity
I start counting the biscuit bunnies I had yesterday.
which sadly reach up to eight.
Not my favourite number at all
I look like an exploding fireball
but despite that everything is dark
and ruddy.
like the insides of a trash bin .
My hands are clammy,
throat, a jammed highway of emotions!
If I used ten thousand oceans
as ink, and a million deserts as parchment,
I would be unable to describe my pain
for it was born a torchering antagonist,
a piece of congealed blood in my lungs
and my breath reeks of calamity.

im not submerged into anything
im drowning in my own breath
drowning in stress
anxiety
sadness
yet nothing at all
im numb
but im suffocating in this world
nothing is blocking my air passages, nothing is around my neck
but i feel a tightness in my throat
i shake
yet im silent
i get irritable
annoyed
and i shut down
sometimes i'll cry
others i just sit there staring at nothing
and i just... sit

I'm freaking out, man
Man I'M FREAKING out

What lies in the bushes?
What DID I DO
to unsettle LUCIFER?
and Odin?
and vampires?
And BANSHEES?

why, why, WHY
the need to chase me?
I'll just run away

No,
no, you can't catch me
..I can't breathe!
my clothes
Work AGAINST ME

They are my enemies
YOU are my enemies
I am my own enemy
IT'S INSIDE MY HEAD

I gotta run now
but I'm troubled
because I cannot see

what lies in the dark?

So I run.