I pick up a beat up guitar,
I strum a feeble string,
Because that's all it has.
I put it back down,
And meet it's gaze,
Not like it can truly think,
But I see it's pain,
It gave away,
But got nothing back,
Just a few broken strings,
And, a source of protection it lacks.
I start to walk the opposite direction,
But, soon realize how similar it really is to me,
Which makes me question my sanity,
Has it really come to this?
Comparing myself to inanimate objects?
I pick it up and start to head home.
I'm in need of some company,
So sick and tired of being alone.
Its case got stripped away,
Leaving it susceptible to damage,
It was left out in a desolate alley,
On a piercing cold rainy day,
Just to be trampled on,
By the careless,
That walk on,
As if the roads were made for only them.
If only someone would pick me up,
And shelter me with their love.
The guitar had a better fate it seems,
It was saved by me,
But, I'll only be saved in my hopeless romantic dreams.