My finger travels on strings
Like train on tracks
Sometimes like a local train
Stopping at every other fret
And sometimes like some express
Covering a whole lot of distance
Before pausing for a moment or two.
My fingers slide
From one string to another
From one fret to another
In turn creating symphonies
Which are sometimes an ethereal bliss
And sometimes an unfathomable chaos
Like creaky old wooden doors
On warm humid days
One hand keeps the strings chained
While the other sets them free
Setting into motion
An oxymoronic event
And myriad frequencies
Reinforce on each other
Forming melodies of utter finesse.
They say all your prized possessions
Leave behind scars
And so my fingertips carry calluses
From this wine hued acoustic creature
Signifying battle wounds
Which i'll always be proud of
Aren't you?
Jul 5, 2020
Jul 5, 2020 at 2:43 AM UTC
My finger travels on strings
Like train on tracks
Sometimes like a local train
Stopping at every other fret
And sometimes like some express
Covering a whole lot of distance
Before pausing for a moment or two.
My fingers slide
From one string to another
From one fret to another
In turn creating symphonies
Which are sometimes an ethereal bliss
And sometimes an unfathomable chaos
Like creaky old wooden doors
On warm humid days
One hand keeps the strings chained
While the other sets them free
Setting into motion
An oxymoronic event
And myriad frequencies
Reinforce on each other
Forming melodies of utter finesse.
They say all your prized possessions
Leave behind scars
And so my fingertips carry calluses
From this wine hued acoustic creature
Signifying battle wounds
Which i'll always be proud of
Aren't you?