Black residue clings mischievously to fingertips
Pickups lean off-kilter
It matters not; they are silent.
Was it three years? Four years? Five?
Such claims would be unfair.
Just a collection of moments
Chords strung out of sequence, only occasionally,
Without a clear goal.
They don't sing loud enough
Play faster
Fingers don't hold tight enough
Play faster
Grasping for the frets, for the pick,
for meaning.
The human voice has wires
Notes that don't ring clear enough
Not enough force to strum through
If there was an amplifier
And the black rusty glue was brushed clean
There would be a symphony
Not a cacophony
The best amplifier is in my head
And if there's only one outlet
Why plug in anywhere else?
I adore this.
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