I.
I press my delicate fingertips
upon the vinyl strings.
A few strums
make them quiver with pain.
But, I have the willpower
to go forward.
I must play.
This is who I am.
II.
My fingertips tender
with every touch.
Then,
the callouses layer my fingertips
and make them numb.
The pain is gone.
But, perhaps that is what
has kept me
hanging on.
III.
because I QUIT.
There's nothing left
that satisfies
me.
My fingertips become delicate
once again.
No longer can I inflict them
with pain.
I have no willpower.
I don't care to play.
Maybe, this isn't who I am.
IV.
I press my delicate fingertips
upon the vinyl strings.
I subdue the pressure
and never do it again.
Author notes
This is simply about a lost passion...music...
nothing more needs to be said.
THOUGHTS?!?
Comments
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What a beautiful piece...sheer beauty, I must say!
The poem has an immense lyrical note that touches the heart of the reader. You created real poetry, my dear!
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