Playing Dead
I'll bet the strings need tuning
On my guitar, untouched for months
Dragged from its coffin
So long ago
Now only moss grows
Isn't it apropos?
Could use some polish, too
Even though nobody hears
Where it sits in its case
Which I'm not ready to face
I'll have a cup of coffee first
Or maybe just stay in bed
It's safer in my blanket fort
Where I lie here playing dead
If I'm not living, is it really playing?
Don't know what I'm saying
Think it needs new strings
A few new picks anyway
I'll up some music, too
Maybe an amp someday
When I'm ready to
Come out and play
But not today
I think I'll stay
Where I lay
I don't think I could
Get up if I tried
The area next to me
A grave I've dug so wide
I could never cross it
Responsibilities, expectations
Consequences, obligations
In my blanketed island
Can't hear the demands
Or the people or my phone
Thick brushes of reality have grown
Outside my bed
Outside my head
Where I play dead
Posted Oct 29, 2022, 6:32 AM UTC