Passion Without Talent

The cruelest trait I can think of

For anyone on this earth

Even the person I might hate the most

Is passion without talent.

Why must I be given such a mind

That is so inclined to that beautiful art

But cruelly gifted with a body that 

Cannot keep up with those dreams

That conjure themselves

In my deepest thoughts. 

How I wish to move the way they do

Flow the way they do

Bend and stretch the way they do.

Build my body like theirs

Work and toil until perfection.

Who thought to give me these wants, 

These pines,

Yet match it with a corpse that will never be 

The right shape

The right size

The right look. 

Why must I have worked so many years

To try and reach some shred of goodness at this 

Art, yet I am held back from that 

Bright light of talent. 

I have wasted my years pretending like I'm good. 

Pretending like I can even compete with them.

But I can’t fit in with them, the parts

Of my being being the only thing keeping me

From my dream.

Passion without the talent.

How funny this cruel reality can be. 

How wasteful I feel.

Money, time, tears. 

I’ve thrown them all away without a second thought

Because this is what i wanted to

Be meant to do with my life.

Oh how I wanted to be even

Half as good as the rest.

But what use is a useless form 

Compared to effort in a demanding art?

Quitting feels so easy, so tempting.

How would they look at me if I did?

Could I handle those stares, 

Pitying and sad,

‘Quitting, she had so much potential’

‘She didn’t even try’

‘Gave up just like that’ 

How would I look to myself?

A failure.

Yearns halted by my own shortcomings.

Passion without talent.