My glossy, stickerless guitar
sits in the corner of my room,
begging to be picked up
every now and then.
Last summer I fell in love with this
With its slick strings, waiting patiently to be
touched, picked, plucked by my
agile fingers, naive to the unknown chords.
Its melodious vibrations,
acoustic, rusty aftertaste,
take me back to my childhood
When my dad lulled us to sleep,
humming songs I still adore to this day.
hollow like one’s chest, empty, but with
strings like a tongue, allowing it to speak
a language all can hear
but only some can understand.
Lines engraved into fingertips,
printed, stamped as evidence of having played for
hours off end.
Pure notes, rich with passion
produced by memorized patterns.
A false note, repeat; again.
G, C, Em, D…
practice, practice, practice…
My glossy, stickerless guitar,
still sitting there in my room.
Knobs polished white,
strings tightened against its frame.
So serene yet with such potential…