PoemsBrowse PoemsSlamsFresh DropEchoes
LearnWriting TipsPoetry TermsPoets & ArtistsBooksFor Teachers
ExplorePoetry GenomePoem MapEchoesTake ActionGroups
AboutWrite a PoemDonateSign UpLog In

Guitar


I want a guitar now, don't know how to play the thing;
I tried once before but gave up when I broke a string.
 
I want to make some music, make some kind of noise shed,
Something that can reflect what's going on in my head.
 
Something that knows what's changing when I don't know what's wrong.
I want it to show me myself and guide me along.
 
I want it to play my heart and show I'm not alone,
To tell me all can come out that's infused in each bone. 
 
I want to play it though it hurt my hands I am sure.
I want my fingers to hurt; I want them to blister.
 
I want them to bleed, bleed out the sorrows of my heart.
I want the wounds to scar so it won't fully depart.
 
I want a guitar here though I don't know what I'll play,
Probably nothing- It'd stay on my lap where it lay.
 
It wouldn't make a sound for I wouldn't strum the strings,
But my fingers would fret them as my mind frets dark things.
 
Then I'd hear something- I'd hear the guitar making sounds.
A soft and percussive noise with each tear it resounds.
 
The pressure of the pain in my chest needs to be freed.
It won't come out my fingers- I can't get them to bleed.
 
So they flow from my eyes, they make music on the strings
and drum upon the wood, soft, irregular beatings.
 
The sound of my heart and all the pain that therein lies,
It washes out of me and it falls down from my eyes.
 
I grip the neck harder, on each finger a red line.
Now the pain comes from my fingers, from my aching spine.
 
It shimmers from shaking shoulders, from vibrating legs
It comes out of my mouth in silent sobs, sighs and begs.
 
It empties from my mind, and my eyes begin to see.
It empties from my heart, I'm starting to feel free.
 
I start to sit up though I had been feeling so weak,
then I wipe off the last, still glistening on my cheek.
 
©All Rights Reserved

Something wrong with this poem?

Share

Replies are closed for this poem.

If you or someone you know is struggling, you are not alone.

988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline — call or text 988, 24/7. Crisis Text Line — text HELLO to 741741.

schnoseb

Benjamin P.S. is a being of immense integrity, habitually semi-boisterous, sans ostentatiousness, and sibling to seven. He is skilled in the art of art, melodic and harmonious in music. Seldom garrulous; it is somewhat a rarity for this bizarre being to be heard uttering anything auxiliary a grunt. This individual has a great extent of outlandish schemes being administrated in his psyche; but you only see the translucent structure, you encompass a diminutive amount of his true form- only some is illuminated within your perception.

View all poems →

Your Poem's Voice

See what makes your poem unique — its voice, energy, themes, and the literary traditions it draws from.

Comments (0)

Comments are closed for this poem.