I have been played like a cheap mandolin,
Strings cracked and worn.
Your slender fingers pluck and caress my neck,
As a crowd gathers to hear your manipulation
Of my gracious chords.
The bond of your inspiration
And my ability to sing the sounds in between
Leaves me stranded
When your song has ended,
Because there is so much I've left to say.
After you have expressed the pain,
the triumph, and the sonic desire to exist,
I am put back in my lonely case
To wait in hopeless patience until
You want to play me again.
I am merely a vintage mandolin
Purchased from the flea market;
Played until you go back to guitar.
I only hope that you take me out once in a while,
Or throw me in the fire to be reborn.
It would be a tragedy for such a useful tool
To sit unused for eternity;
There are far better players in this world,
People that could really appreciate my timbre.
Until my body is shattered, I will wait.