Today I Hate My Guitar!

Somewhere in the dungeon pits of this world, my girl resides. It feels like ages since she’s gone. And so I play this guitar, harder and longer than I ever did before. I strum it as though I don’t care about it anymore. Perhaps I don’t.  Two high strings snapped off but I continue playing vigorously. The loose strings dangle at my feet. My left hand is pinching the chords hard, strings slicing through finger tips. Blood sips. But I don’t care. I don’t give a damn. She used to love this guitar. Whenever it played a tune for her, she’d sit cross-legged in front of me, romantic melodies squeezing tears off the depth of her soul and out through those charming eyes of hers. She wouldn’t utter a word as a farrago of emotions stirred up inside of her. Now she’s gone. And I’m left with this guitar. The question still pops. The big question. Me and the guitar, who did she love most?

The sound from my guitar blasts through my little room, escaping though the windows and probably crashing into my neighbours houses. Today, I know, my neighbours would think I’ve gone mad. They know I’m a guitar man, but heck, they’ve never heard a sound from my house. That’s how reserved I’ve always been with my music. I wouldn’t be surprised if they gather in my front yard. Instead I’ll tell them. I’ll tell them that this guitar is responsible for the loss of my babe. I’d cry out a song of sorrow. They might call it a sad love song, but truth is, it’s a hate song. Today I hate my guitar!