You pluck and you pluck,

my strings getting weaker,

sounding stronger,

working harder to maintain the tension

you try to impress.

I struggle at first,

as you use your pick

to elongate,


integrate every one of my notions into something wonderful.

I won’t let you abuse me,

but you never do.

You care for me,

handle me well,

buff me and polish me until I shine,

shimmer like the words you spoke never could.

And you still can’t sing.

You try -

oh, how you try -

but you know to let me be your voice,

and the message is the same

as it was several months ago,

as it was yesterday.

It just sounds a bit different,

a bit more poised.

As you sing through my voice, others listen, others stop,

but as you use me, it is I who am most impressed.

The dents in your fingers tell a different story still,

but it will never matter as much as I do to you,

and you to me.

Let our voices, in one, ring.