Description: I wrote this Sunday evening after one of my guitar strings broke. I was already slightly frustrated with some other things, amidst reading some pretty heavy material, and I just wasnt feeling the "bright" sound of new guitar strings. Furthermore, I havent had a cigarette since 2002, but the idea embodied my mood.
I want my strings old and worn out. I want them to ring dull and deep and dark; like the blunt touch to a weeks old bruise.
I want the harsh critique of an old has-been who was more than slightly used; with bitter sentiments about the way the world works.
I want rustic stained callused fingers to feed my crooked teeth. I want to play pick-less arpeggios with a cigarette between my lips and a piece of scrap paper nearby. I want yesterdays coffee, room temperature, and bitter to compliment the stale smoke that dances on my breath.
I want a reason to scream in an octave you cant hear and play it off like a whisper, with a smirk reminiscent of every devious thing I've ever done.
I want to let my mind race like a maniac while occupying the like with straight talk about the forecast. I want to intentionally go the wrong way before being admittedly unsure and unaware; then play dumb and offer an apology so contrived it's insulting. I want total, 100%, complete, thorough destruction. Chaos. I want every single thing systematically destroyed, poof, completely to the ground, but done silently and with zero plans of reconstructing.
I want to waive my fist and march around like a freak and not give two shits.
I want you to win; to be beaten fairly and be genuinely indifferent about it.
I want to get in a philosophical debate about how 2+2 can equal 5; before we both agree we've been fed so much bullshit it's beyond our breath but ingrained in the very syllables we emphasize.
I want you to see it my way before I retreat from my ideologies. I want to disregard what I cant have once I get it and then complain about losing it.