old guitar, broken neck
i’m sorry—
but boy do i feel ya.
you sang so loud
so beautiful
and
so proud.
now you collect dust
so well
feeling like you
are burning in hell
i’m sure. can’t sing.
like records skip
and it drives me insane.
that old sewing machine
brown with
yellow and red lights
it too
sits in the corner and dies.
Jimmy at the end of the bar
sure people ask
‘how are you?’
and you can feed
any line
make everyone believe
you are fine.
sometimes its all you can hear
the sound
of collapsing
of the end growing near.
urgh, fuck that sound.
sometimes it’s so hard
to remember:
- Not all things breakdown.
