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My guitar

 

It sits waiting, in piercing black, sleek and stealthy like a jet

 

An unbreakable object of anger and strength,

Yet its wooden neck seems frail bound by strings of metal

 

Its strings worn from the cut and blistered fingers it exploits,

Never in tune yet the music it makes is still beautiful to him

 

The emotions of the man, played between frets on its smooth wooden surface,

A modest instrument, a priceless channel revealing emotions and character

 

Many a time it has spent sleepless nights playing feelings that can not be put into words,

 

It is always waiting, ready to play a mans life through strings and fingers  

Life through fingers and strings


By Hayden

View more poems from Davidson High School (NSW) - Cabinet of Lost and Found 2010