I keep playing the high string
on my second-hand guitar.
It sounds off against the rest,
a year older, more sour,
and cynical at best.

It knows the breadth of my sounds,
the cradle of my voice
over words meant for someone else.
Centred over my shaking fingers
and constant questioning of self.

I keep strumming the same old chords
and hoping for a new sound.
Twisting cheap rhymes and wine,
another glass-full, another smoke,
all from the unemployment line.

This writing was an attempt
to make laziness an art.
So that singing through Wednesday
is better than a desk-job,
better than my next far-off lay.

Yet here I am once again friend,
finding a friend in this:
my inter-planetary longing
for some unrealistic bliss.