I feel like a tight string in a violin:
Playing chords I never knew I could;
Didn’t think I’ll ever lay hands to;
No clue such a thing would exist.
Dead-livingly stuck.
Being the nylon one, segregated from the rest.
Strung into a bassoon, wired and fixed,
Unmoving, oppressed and sick.
No leadership I’ll ever dream to manifest.
Only plently prickly simple vibrations- pluck.
