In the reserved room built with teenage angst
sat a guitar waiting for a dear friend.
My quick fingers were tentative to touch.
I listened to the chords I brought about—
played a tangle labyrinth. I wish to quit.

Was that a G sharp or a B flat note?
Frustration brews like a furious storm.
I wanted to toss everything away.
This instrument? Not mine. And that is that.
Too embarrassed by my ineptitude.

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.