My Guitar

My Guitar weeps
And not so gently
It strings together broken tears
It has seen my feeble attempts at love

My Guitar laughs
As I try to serenade
A song that lovers play
It strings together broken romances

My guitar sleeps
For I am not doing to well
In charming your heart
My guitar is bored

My guitar kills me
And steals my girl
They were meant to be it seems
They joined chords and sang

The funeral was brief
The music was good
Guitar music after all
Now they travel onwards

Musical journeys
With not a thought of me
With no guitar
As the ghost of me weeps

introspectionphilosophypoetrysadlight verse

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Robin Davis

April 21, 2014 at 10:48 PM

Arthur Such a clever and creative write. I like how you went through different emotional stages. Thank you for the awesome and flattering comment on my Graveyard poem.

Anoucheka Gangabissoon

October 14, 2013 at 11:06 AM

Love it :) Thks for commenting on my poetry :)

Jamesp Kail

October 7, 2013 at 10:07 PM

My guitar is stained by tears and blood . Like a fine patina

Alfreda Williamson

September 22, 2013 at 7:55 PM

Arthur, your poem is cute, I loved it. As for mine, you know the title is a play on Marie Antionette's remark in regards to the poor in the streets finding food. It's about that bad here, the rich getting richer and politicians more concerned for them than for the people and for the most part neither caring about the poor and hurting. Otherwise, glad you liked it.