Shattered remains of a broken guitar.
Splinters I can’t put back in place.
Pieces don’t fit together,
I can’t mend you, my love.
I can’t fix what I myself broke,
Strings that now play this muted, ugly sound,
No longer reaching from end to end,
There isn’t enough glue in the world.
A blue guitar. Rosewood guitarist.
Disappointed. Demented. Distraught.
Want to see another break?
Hold me by the fretboard, snap off my headstock.
2 member protest rally:
I like this.
why thank you, mudra.
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Talk, my friend. Now that you've read this section, the urge to speak has increased. I know. It's all right. It happens...
Stop fighting it. Talk.