Some days my fingers wail to strum,
The strings of the guitar, making them go numb.
With peripheral knowledge of music,
Still earnestly submerged in every lick.
Sometimes in high spirits,
Singing indiscrete lyrics.
Lost in the times of lives,
Bringing memories like sharp-edged knives.
Songs I sung carried meaning in every word,
Which now I know was absurd.
For hours I played, without any pain,
For every chord now I play, I could feel the strain.
Striking some random notes, I make a fresh start,
Midway, finding the difficulty, I decide it’s not my art.
The kindle for the guitar that was in my young heart,
Was slowly dying, like burning in swart.
Why would I stop,
The question remained on top.
I had a relationship with my guitar,
Beyond words, impossible to decipher.
The strings that ran down the fret board,
Connecting my heart making me a rockstar.