My Life in My Hands

In my hands, I hold a piece of wood,

But not just any piece of wood.

It is long and smooth with a glossy feel.

Some say its stickers and its scars make it look bad,

I say it gives it history.

Three metal knobs control its voice,

But its voice doesn't come from its head.

Its head is small and its neck is big,

Just big enough to say what it has to say.

On its body is a long strap,

A strap with pins of my choosing,

A strap that keeps it from falling most of the time.

4 metal strings that hurt when you press your fingers,

But after a while, you get used to it.

Its voice can be distorted or clean.

It talks about whatever is on its mind,

Whether it be the political climate

Or the girl from school who seems perfect in every way.

This piece of wood is more than just a piece of wood,

Even with all its perfect imperfections.

This piece of wood is my guitar.

It sings as my calloused fingers glide across the strings.

Its bass melodies calm me down after a long day.

There isn't a thing about it that I don't like.

The way the strap pulls my sleeve down when I wear it,

The way my hand and fingers hurt after playing for a while,

The way my hand sweats uncontrollably.

It all comes together to make music.

As cliche as it sounds, music is my life.

And if anyone tries to take away my music, they take away my life.