Poise

My ballet slippers have aged;
The lace yellowed,
The bottoms torn.

They once fit me flawlessly,
My tiny feet empowered by these little slippers,
As I dreamt of being a pristine ballerina.

I yearned to be graceful,
And to point my toes just so.
I wanted so much to be dainty,
And raise my arms above my head like Clara.
I'd prettily twirl, all dressed in pink.
I could twirl for days and days.

My dream plummeted into the piano upon which the teacher was perched,
As she played Mozart and Bach.
I was clumsy, and my toes refused to stand up.
I could not hold my arms up like the other girls seemed to do so effortlessly.
Why? Why couldn't I be just like the ballerina in my jewelry box?

I twirl, clumsily, clumsily.
I dance in circles, round and round.
Quickly, like a carnival ride,
So my legs give out and I tumble,
And the room spins eternally, like I just got off of a carnival ride.
I am unstructured, undisciplined.

I am not a ballerina at all.