My Guitar

My second hand six string,
My escape to another world.

Fingers running down honeycomb wood,
Fingers running up steel strings, sounds of screams and metallic frustration,
Like the feedback from an amplifier.

Like a loyal pet,
It never strays,
And sleeps in the corner of my room,
Until I pick and strum,
Until I’m transported to an alternate universe.

The blisters on my fingers,
Turned to rough calluses,
Leaving a lasting memory of the days and nights,
When I stretched my fingers, pressing them hard into the strings,
And learned how to tame “the beast”,
So that it would sing sweetly for me.