That shrill, screaming pluck of a string,
it sends vibrations through the air.
Bouncing off the wall and back in my ear,
but it lingers for awhile.
All the while hindering my thoughts.
My axe rendered from powerful timber,
leaking sounds that drip from the neck
like the sweat from my grip.
She rests angelically on my hip,
only to be stirred once more by an earth-quaking strum.
I begin to hum to compliment her sound,
our hearts aggresivley pounding together
and feeding like leaches off of our love for one another.
My bleeding fingers teach me to ration,
but it's futile.
For the beautiful sound is far too addictive to quit.
And my hopelessness is indicative of my lonesomeness.
As my instrument moves in, all else is lost. 
Love, but at what cost?
I am being consumed,
though content with my doom.
Continuosly, plucking furiously alone in a room.
My one and only legitimate fear,
I may wake one morning without ability to hear.