The Devil’s Instrument


We Are Perfect.

I was looking through my old word documents, and I found this poem that I wrote in eleventh grade. It’s weird to think how much can change in such a short period of time. Now, when I see my bassoon from across the way, I smile to myself and my heart fills with joy. I’ve even named it! I call my bassoon “Fabio”, because like its namesake, my Bassoon oozes of strength and masculinity.

Same thing, right?

Same thing, right?

But I digress.

The Devil’s instrument

There you stand, across the room,

playing with my nerves.

Your gleaming coat of rich brown oak,

far more than you deserve.


Here I sit upon my bed,

hands shaking and eyes wide

Wondering how I- so weak!

could tame the beast inside.


Woe to those who choose my course,

sorrow will fill their lives!

For once your hands grasp a bassoon,

it cuts you like a knife.


“Don’t worry!” they said “It’s really quite simple

to master the bassoon.

The rewards are amazing, and you won’t regret it.

Come quick! Not a moment to lose.”


Lies! Lies! T’was all but lies!

But my young self knew nothing of this.

And now I am an empty shell,

for my “reward” was a dementor’s kiss.


Try as you may, try as you might

to play sweet melodies,

pain will be the outcome, friend!

So please, do learn from me.




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