Playing The Guitar

I play one song on the guitar
over and over, trying to get it right;
I never get it right.

I change guitars to try and get it right,
and it’s better — but it’s not right.
I put the guitar down after a few attempts,

or moments, or when I’m discouraged
beyond caring anymore — and actually?
It’s always the last one. Always

I am beyond caring, except: I still care.
I care and worry about my brain, my head;
my soul, if you will.

In moments like this, the soul
takes a moment to stick itself up
and out of me; peeking, if you will,

at the nemesis, the flashpoint
of its existence. The guitar
opens a door into the simple void

that leads to something — despair,
perhaps, or another realm? I don’t know.
There’s a sudden glow, then a fade;

I sigh and bend to it again;
lost, for the moment, in
the inherent possibilities.

So: I sit and grind my teeth and go
forward into the same song again
with no hope of it being any different

this time. But I do it, hoping anyway;
I do it as if one more round on the guitar
will break it loose and make it work;

outside of me and my guitar
an entire universe waits to be found;
with small hope, I set myself to the task.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T