At first, the clubs were frightening, swinging away from my hands in strange patterns--
red—yellow—blue--
chaotic, unpredictable,
colliding like doomed galaxies
in midair.

Best to jump back, to let go.
I tried to tame them, then,
launching one at a time, only one
in a slow, controlled arc.

Cautiously I added a second,
letting the last wait in my hand
while its fellows soared…
but it was such a handful!

Always there was one too many,
smashing down on my fingers,
bouncing away from my grasp.

At last I learned
how to grip with my thumb, how to keep my fingers waiting.
I caught the clubs as they came down:

One, two. Stop.

One, two. Stop.

But I could not let the third club go.
I resigned myself to two;
two was easy, familiar.

There was no fear of breaking things,
no worry of losing control.
Over and over I flipped the colors,
but still everything was missing.

And then there came a day
when I let go with full force,
spinning the third club away
with the sudden trust that it would come back.
It did.

Solidly they kept returning,
one two three one two three,
perfect rhythm in my hands.

Perfect order, perfect chaos,
for as long as I could trust the risk
of each new throw.
poem by ann pedtke
this poem reminds me of gamzee for some reason. what is the theme of this poem.