Wednesday 16 June 2010

As my blistered fingers pluck broken strings.

Hours spent, but not
paid for. Who'd buy them?
Nobody, which is what
it's all about because
Nobody's here, and he's
keeping quiet, so I
wouldn't count on him -
buying some of your time.

Is the guitar even tuned?
Who knows, sounds nice,
pulling on those wires,
alone, for a few hours.
And then you look at the
time and it means nothing.
Because time is relative
and what's the point of looking
at it when you have nothing
to be late for?

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