The feeling of irrelevance as sharp
as a tightly wound string.
The distance further denoting
the broken feeling that I have.
The gentle strumming of coiled metal
is strange comfort.
The scrape and scratch
as my fingers slide up the neck.
A sad and lonely melody
a poet’s dying heart.
A grieving echo,
a hollow, chanting refrain.
A wailing voice, cracked and worn
a breathless aching whisper.
Words unwound as feelings connect
into rhythms and patterns of rhyme.
Sing, sing, as if it were all you had left
of a raw and bleeding heart.
My hands as one with wood and steel
the euphony of something real.
My song is yet written the tune yet unnamed
still I play from the depth of my soul.
Fingers blistered and bleeding
as I search to find my voice.