(Help me to love…)
My naivete is endless
I think very simply and without much depth
I act on impulse without thought to reception, intention and consequence
I am your mouth and I butcher your words
You have called me to create
You have put this great love inside me and it overflows
But I choke
Do not let me silence it because the depression that would come
The tormenting sound of the stones speaking with my voice
But only inside my small and simple brain
My potential is also endless
But my hands are shoddy and tear like tin or tissue paper
They’re cut and burned and are repeat offenders
How can you trust them?
Do you not see disappointment and failure in my face?
And fear and regret hiding beneath?
Yet the melody resides plain and childlike
Unassuming and unaffected
Why am I the instrument?
Why is my tuning so strange?
Why do you choose to make music with that which is meager and wanting?
How do I form my mouth around the notes?
By what timbre and inflection?
And what of improvisation?
Your answers are always in four and five note patterns
Curiously detached from finality or clarity
But intuition needs not any more questions
The music speaks for itself
I am the instrument
I must open my mouth