the art

She used to pluck a few of her hair

and yarn them as the strings, 

of her delicate unstrung guitar,

running her fingers over it

as if her hands never itched 

whilst I coveted her winsome heart

She noted every rhythm and rhyme

on the pages that disappointed, she 

then rolled the paper into balls

to her it was a waste after all,

but to me it was the earth

where I remained and praised her art

 

Defeated she picks up her guitar

enraged, she frees a long sigh

and oh, i could not find 

the words, i could honor her with

I believed such melodies lived in the myths

It would break me if we were apart

but was my affection even collected,

in the beautiful piece she wrote?

Or if she was really affected

by the love that I invoked?

or her soul that I wished to smoke?

did the lightening in her chest ever sparked? 

only i wish to know

only if i ever showed

Reviews

[Aura]

This is interesting. Forgive me, but is this poem about a person who does not see their true talent that others can see? I interpreted it that way as the person thought it was a waste, but the second one thought her talent was worth being praised as art.

[snekh]

yes, thank you for reading :)