Guitar

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The cold whirled into the room, The breeze freezing the poor mans toes.   A sigh rattles in his chest, His fingers strum the strings of his guitar.
I dye my hair. I play guitar. I create art. But, hey! I'm more than just a semi-realistic stereotype! I'm part of a choral group.  I go to church every Sunday. I love the library.
I close my eyes, fingers runing along thin threads, careful not to break the fragile silence. The golden red body pressed against my own, as I take in the beauty of its glossy finish. My hand trails its neck,
Each night I dream in many sounds   From deep within and some profound.   All together they must dance  
T'was once before the break of day when in the silence of a stored cachethere upon my memories ladder one ring above a thought came afterwhat was once so fine, so well placed, now lay defeated and disgraced
There are no great hills in Kenilworth where grassy girls give fruitful birth born from men of stately girth   I have been to Kenilworth I have been to far worse and back again upon a shore
We talked of prized cheese as if cheese was our master in the great disaster of us,   Then mind spent, W(H)INE spent on dreams only a fool would leave behind we passed our own tests on our own
In the wake of thingswe surrendered below cutting cloudsyou to me, me to the reign of ages. In a moments timethe world was bornour love's deathtook decades to complete.
Guitar is a gift, Was a gift. Playing until my fingers were red, Eating mayonnaise on bread.   Guitar hurt, Guitar told my story, Guitar sang, And played.  
The guitarist wrinkles his face as he concentrates with dignity.   He flips the page on the stand, and adjusts his fingers accordingly.   The acoustic guitar resonates
Once upon a time, or once upon a rhyme, there was a girl in a shining tower. Locked up all alone, a truly terrible home, controlled by a witch's power. When out of the blue there came a prince,
On midday, after school, a boy picked up a beautiful guitar the color of sunset; He tuned it and proceeded it play it, to play the music of his life, the sounds of his soul, he relieved all his stress.  
The notion that one becomes a poet through others to me is strange I grew from artists composer those with words unnoticed sometimes you forget the roots of poetry being music 
There’s something about the feel Of the strings beneath my fingers That allows me to forget the world, Even for just a minute. There, Tucked behind the smooth, Glistening spruce body,
I hide behind the notes, And look towards them for guidance. When times are rough and broken, They are there to mend. Because the notes that come from my guitar, Speak louder than the words from my mouth.
White washed walls orange groves basement halls hidden coves all these places hand in hand we played our hearts out departed land   And in this dream world I am not lost
When it comes to what I need, it starts with wood & some strings. To create a sound, unique frets, techniques for each note, creates a sound that just allows, the siren of rock and roll.  
On an island far away So, some music I will play Six strings and my hands Melody in the sands   Mood displayed in every note Mental songs that I have wrote Come alive with every strum
Pick up the guitar man and play your tune   You've wandered the earth
Here am I, feet buried to the ankles in the sand Caliced fingertips stinging Playing off the beat of the tide A rhythm fit for a slow dance on the beach I shift from chord to chord, loving every second
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
The gentle strum of fingers on a guitar, Transporting the eager listener to lands of afar, The pianist’s gentle caress of the keys, Expressing melodies akin to the waves of seas,
The air is sharp with winter anticipationComets with tails blazing: stage lightsHit upon the crowd, wondrousHis hair is Spanish moss thatHangs heavy from the oaks,festooned in beads and baubles
Strings are her muscles,  And the amplifier is her heart.  I feel the music travels, 
The music storms within me Strains I can't express I am a chained melody These chords left unpressed   My soul aches with feeble hands When that one song plays
Flawless Music   I retain all these faults that could make me flawless, I can write rhymes, tell the time, though I really shouldn’t floss less.
you are by Damon Dixon   you are powerful beyond belief
Notes pour from meAs my fingers glide along the stringsA smile grows upon my faceAs my guitar begins to singBlocking out the noise of the worldI am one with the musicCreating a harmonious signal
I am from music at volumes so highFrom the feelings of all that make you sigh I am from hours of bright, hot lightsAnd the packing of instruments at the end of the night
Slowly the fingers role, knowing their place silent but so loud they pluck individually, then simoltaniously they slip from each string the sound is so beautiful so simple
Music is grand, Guitars are great, The sweet sound of strings being strummed at 8.  Rock n' Roll, Country, Rap, Jazz and Pop, singing to every song, I know I won't stop.
what is there left to tell anymore? I'm presenting my case to an empty room filled with silence that illuminates my hurt. Don't worry about it, you're worthless to me now; you
I play the guitar hoping to get far. Not just to get by , but enough defy. All who resent me , with a youthful burst of energy. They tell me I must become an engineer. The pay is good , and getting famous is rare.
The strings are stretched Polished so bright When I strum It sounds so right But if I leave alone It will fell as cold as a stone I keep polished every night So it will retain its great might
The notes flow from my fingertips Echoing their beatiful sounds with each pluck of a string Each note a fragment of a glorious song I am free to create whatever sounds I want No restraints
A simple butterfly before you start The sweaty palms and warming up. All your worries and fears come flying in
It all began when my dad killed my fish, when I cried and said a new CD was my only wish I was only three when he brought one home And it only took me 2 days to learn every song
The scent of metal lingers long after  I remove my fingers from her neck, and the rest of her hollow frame is still buzzing 
Most say I’m quiet. Shy even. Perhaps, the thoughts and feelings thriving in my head just can’t be put into words. Nor any other distinct form of speech.
I feel the beat Rushing through my veins Shaking my bones. It pulses Living and strong. I feel myself open up A weight lifted off my chest Like a beautifully decorated circus elephant
Late fall. So late that the scent of fall had to be searched for in the wintry air. But it was there and she breathed it in as she strolled through the park. Leaves covered the grass,
"So this one time, at band camp..", Is a phrase often heard, When one is informed, That I am a band nerd. I wake up at dawn, For the ever simple pleasure, To memorize my music, Measure by measure.
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