Email Poem

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Poem

I'm a guitar 

So a craftsman made a guitar 
Eight years later he died 
Before anyone mastered it 
Now it's playing well 
Many love it but a few understand it
So who will repair the guitar?

The guitar maker or should l say dad
Who does that?
Make a creation and just disappear
Honestly l used to hate you for that 
I don't know maybe l still do 
We don't have to pretend that we're cool 
Only if you could hear me now 
But you can't because you're dead!
Dead! Dad how could you leave us for the grave?

So l had to learn to ride a bike by myself 
At first, l fell and missed you even more 
I thought you would come back, pick me up and 
Say "you got this son" l waited and waited 
Dude you never came back 
I tried for the second time, the bike wasn't easy 
Trust me l broke my hand
That moment still reminds 
My soul that l don't meet anyone's demands

The third time, l had the guts 
I rode the bike to places for the first time 
Places like that science fair you didn't attend 
Places like that father and son vacation 
Places like teaching me how to wear a belt
Places like the graveyard you lay
Dad, it feels nice to finally say it 
I missed you my whole childhood 
I wanted to see you in that 7th grade picture 
I wish you was here man..I.. I'm sry

So now the guitar you made plays
It plays beautiful melodies that goes with synonyms 
It's music everytime l write poetry 
Your guitar or your son is doing well 
I really hope you continue to rest in peace!
Dad

Atipaishe Taruona.

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