Three Guitars in Disrepair
My first love, my tiny blonde Martin guitar, never left my side for the first six years I knew her.
It’s worn body reflects the pain we endured together and
now that it’s held together by duct tape and baling wire,
it sounds tired of my trying.
My scintillating strawberry Stratocaster squeals and hisses a disgusting tune whenever it’s plugged in and I’ve found myself—
on more than one occasion—
taking drastic measures trying to fix it;
though I’ve learned I lack the necessary patience and elegance to rewire the delicate circuitry.
The dark brunette Les Paul was absolutely gorgeous but
for some reason it always sounded like it had one foot out the door yet
I still loved it with a burning passion because
I could see what we could become, if she tried.
It was a love-hate relationship.
After a while I grew tired of carrying the burden of seeing unrealized potential and
I sold it for something much less remarkable—
and I think that suits me alright for now.