Nestled snugly beneath brass strings a guitar pick lives.
He makes his home between two frets,
Passing day after day looking out from the neck
Of the mahogany Epiphone;
The hollow, butter-yellow, soundbox he calls home.
White and smooth,
His gold writing fades,
Mother of pearl, like a shell washed by waves
Quietly hoping for the chance
To be held again between finger and thumb,
To feel the strings running under his strum,
Fill the air with a sound he is longing to hear,
If only someone would get over their crippling fear,
Or lack of inspiration,
Or worn out motivation,
He waits for the day