he human mind is quite the composition
With boundless seas of thoughts, tamed only by inhibitions--small dams, if you will
Laced with never-ending threads of emotion; like exquisite pieces of silk
Handled with the utmost delicacy; regarded with great reverence
So easily torn, yet so often relied upon

It overflows with potential; willing us to become what we long to be
Like a notebook, the pages are in front of us
Like precious cloth, it lies under the tailor's agile hands
Like a canvas, it awaits the delicate strokes of those who desire to create the impossible

The pen's in our hands, the needle has been threaded, the paintbrush is prepared
We are simply engulfed; filled with a bittersweet mix of excitement and overwhelming responsibility
We aspire to fulfill the very dreams we've taken so much time to create
Easily confining the hint of a doubt that tries to plant its malignant seed

Too quickly, though, our ability to withhold such thoughts lessens
Our mind becomes tarnished; Branded with blemishes, stripped of all naivity
And consumed with apprehension and doubt
Until it is merely the pathetic ruins of what was once so pure

It becomes the enduring grand piano you never learned to play
Sitting in the corner; so desperately longing and deserving of attention
Yet it remains unused, unappreciated
It becomes out of tune and dusty; never getting to fully test its capability

After a while, we become easily manipulated
Our ambitions stunted; our hopes and dreams beaten back with fears and hesitations
Until finally, we become languid
And slowly mold into the conventional routine known as mediocrity