Must I be surround by the fools of an unworthy world?
winds of the tempest state crushing to demean faith
Among the weeds that twist and turn I see the demon king.
In every face that I will ever grudgingly meet he lashes
God exists. Man resists.
One soul unhappy in the mire of their excreted words
Like poison none other.
The stolen hearts and crumbles
Have no faces for the green grass
growing on plots of dead land
wicked soil and corrupted mind
hath bound a dreary climb from the depths
Saturation and determination
It was once a dream, now a lonely hobby where even I at times believe the need to feel a release must be acquired elsewhere. I was 14 and hesitant on believing that I didn’t have a chance in succeeding. It was for something pure that I sought desperately within it. All the times spent figuring out these complex fingering structures that made up the chords to some special tune. Then entire time, a tune played in my head all so different. That is not the case anymore.
One can strum for joy.
Many strum with guilt.
The guilt within for not pushing harder to make it. I have been known for personal sacrifices. They were ones I felt important and that I believed in seeing come to fruition. Those dreams became the reality that is my wife and marriage that I carry with her.
Why not the beating strums of my youth and the percussive imaginings? Not enough to pursue and see come alive? Perhaps it was always just a hobby and nothing more…but a Hobby that I most certainly can still enjoy.