There is an accordion in my chest

and I'm not sure how to play it.

Others have tried,

Compressing the bellows;

but they could never balance out

the bass and the treble

and it wheezed its song,

so they tossed it aside,

and in its abandonment, fell victim to time

as the ivory yellowed beneath dust.

I grew to dispise

the crooked keys

that lacked beauty and lust

until I met a boy

with a violin in his chest

who pridefully smiled, and thus-

He strung up his bow,

and pushed on the strings,

and the melodies fell to a screech.

He too, couldn't play

but it never stopped him

from serenading those in need.

Startled, I asked, with no offense meant,

"How can you stand to play?

When the music you make

is off-key and rank,

and nobody cares to listen?"

He grinned as I asked

and lowered his bow

to take time to answer my question,

"My dear," said he,

"Why should it matter

if your heartsong is less than perfection?

No one can play

without one mistake

no matter how long that they practice.

That's the beauty in composing,

an art so lawless.

It simply requires time

to adjust to your tune, craft a new line,

and hear that your music is flawless."