My fingers find the notes with no direction from me,

Those strings are so familiar to my hands, a friend they visit constantly.

The tunes they pluck express my soul,

The melodies they pour fourth more often of late assume a soothing role.

I fight for my life day in and day out, tiring but not daring to stop,

These broken strings know my shattered story from bottom to top.

The staccato of the notes scream out for others to look upon what they sew,

My fingers blister my hand stiffens but the music does not stop it keeps its flow.

My head hangs and my shoulders slump but the fire in my eyes blaze ever brighter,

My face becomes weathered and my body bonier and my hair will grow ever lighter.

As time passes this melody becomes more complex and harmonious,

My broken strings still know my shattered story and are anything but joyous.

I gave all I had to give and not one man or woman knew why,

Deep down I was alone and I feel that solitude, and every day inside I cried.

When I die and all have forgotten me,

I will still be playing by devastated song on my broken stings telling my shattered story.

This is a beautigul poem and I would like to know if you could send me a copy of it. My e-mail is Liptalker69@yahoo.com Just send me a copy so I can save it in my scrap book. It's really good.