My dad picked it up when he was 18 years old. Music was always in him. It helped him realize the beauty of music in his life. When he insisted that I learn it, I refused. It tested my patience every time I tried to make any sense of it. Thanks to my erratic teenage, I lost out on patience.
But, every time I saw somebody use it, play it, I watched with the curiosity of a child. I smiled innocently. It transported me to a certain state where every sound it spoke splashed into my emotions.
Guitar is not just an instrument for me. It is what I have grown up listening to. In a certain sense, I cherish a certain kind of romantic love to it-deeply ingrained but never expressed. Guitar is to me, a beautiful women lying in my hands, clad in her wine red wrap around, my hands resting on her curves, my fingers teasing her belly button. Every pluck of string is as intense as a moan of note.
This writing is my first attempt at poetry. It describes in a subtle way, the sense of fulfillment that I enjoy now.
I have walked this world alone...
All my life, searching for something that deserves my adulation...
I have searched the edges of the world for it...
With parched lips and weary eyes i waited...
And then she happened...
When I least wanted or expected it...
Like a wave, she washed into the shores of my being...
She confused me, angered me...
plucked every note in the strings of my heart...
The music tuned me inside out...
In the distinct cacophony of the odd notes...
I heard a story of love...
I have yearned for it, begged for it, fought for it...
and 'here it is'...
'Take it live it' I said...
And I set out...
With a song on my lips...
To love her to the end of my life...
Your comments are deeply appreciated...
