I sat at the edge of my bed
With my guitar in hand.
It didn’t feel like music,
It never does.
I fingered a few familiar chords,
Plucked a simple pattern or two.
The tune rose but didn’t sing.
The few sullen notes
Drifted off in to the loneliness
Of the ether.
Silence embraced me.
My mood dampened.
I don’t have music in me.
I am not music.
I put my guitar down
To rest again in quiet solitude.
I’ll come back to it again
In a few months or years,
And sadly, once again realize,
That I am not music.
