my father's guitar hung lonely
my calloused hands running along fabric of my chair,
fingers skinny and boney.
the guitar was out of tune,
as it rested on my unintentionally ripped hand-me-down jeans,
and my rough thumb plucked gently the strings
in a song that i knew
and my self-conscious voice started to sing without my mind's consent,
the words almost seemed to sting
in their harsh meaning and mild resent.
i always worried
that someone would hear me
in this basement i am buried
to far under to feel the breeze
and the wind in the willows,
and the glinting light in the streams,
the way i can sing
and make it hurt more
and transfer those words
down to the gutted core
the way i unwillingly come home
then leave
it's not about my art
poetry that weaves
it's about my freedom
not mine to keep
on a branch in the willows
i silently weep.
YOU ARE READING
the lowest heights
PoesiaI thought to write this book as a little more abstract and informal because I needed something that's just a small escape from everyday life because, as all of you probably know, life is hard. I hope you enjoy these small poems and little rants. Tha...
