It was not his hands playing my strings wrong.
It was not that I sat on the stand attracting dust to keep me company.
I hoarded so many strings the majors and minors became
Clumsy with too much pressure
And way too little
I twisted so many tuning pegs over, then back under, without bothering
To check the sound of the overly manipulated strings.
Tuners turning back and forth like rods on a foosball table
Desperate to fix what could never sound right, done so wrong
Until one by one each string is plucked, discarded
Except for the few who can vibrate in pitch-
Proudly producing my song of independence.