A Song of Independence

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.


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