I’m a rockstar; it’s true cause’ I said it.
Hair’s quite ****, just have to grow it out.
I’ll play til’ my hands bleed without a doubt.
I listened to the chords I brought about.
Okay, I sound like ****. I’m going to quit.

Was that a G sharp or a B flat note?
Excuse me for being a ****** brat,
but I’m going to start an angry chat.
This instrument? Not mine. And that is that!
Vexing it is, so I become remote.

I loathe guitars! I cannot play them right.
That riff was supposed to be heavy metal.
Not math rock, but it’s enough to settle.
That might change if I use guitar pedals.
Cmon, keep your head high. Let it stay bright.

A friendship with my guitar has begun.
There are bounds I’m still trying not to reach.
And one day, I’ll be good enough to teach
or possess an audience at the beach.
Hey, the guitar is becoming quite fun!

****, metal. I’m a stoner rock artist.
I can play bends, solos, and vibrato.
Look, I even came up with a motto:
to thrive, start with anger in a bottle.
With my advice, you will go the farthest.

My fingers’ pink blush irritates my skin.
Still eager to play. I ignore the sore.
It doesn’t feel like a chore anymore.
This instrument? It’s mine. It led to doors.
It helped me find heaven and become kin.