The Guitarist

Strum the strings
From room to room
The sound will ring

Sealed in its case
Taking up space
I use a pick to play
The guitar, everyday
Playing a chord
Only when I'm bored

Strum the strings
From room to room
The sound will ring

Its base is wood
Its strings are not
When you cannot play
There is nothing to flaunt
Before you play
Tune the sound
Strum on and on
Until a rhythm is found

Strum the strings
From room to room
The sound will ring

I
I have nothing to say
No light to use
No music to play

I'm idle
For I have
No guitar to play

poem by Pete Rivera
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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