Music Makers
The strings are thin and supple. Sleek and black as night, they are lovely.
However, beautiful things can be dangerous. As Jezebel enticed the king of Israel, so the sweet music that echoes through the strings entices me. So many other string instruments, like the one I have the priveledge to play, wear on the fingers untul callouses build. This may take a while, but in the meantime, it causes the finger immense pain. One has to play through this pain if thier desire to play the instrument is great enough. Mine is.
I pluck the harmonious bands that bend against my grip and push them against the cold, hard wood until my fingers blister with a searing pain that freezes them in icy-hot numbness. I play through the pain in my fingers as a soldier trudges into battle. He can't help the feeling he gets knowing that he is protecting his country. The acoustic, folksy sound that rings from my instrument goves me pleasure beyond any I have ever known. As I strum up and down, down and up the neck, warm from my constant playing, my cuticles burn as if they are bleeding, but I continue to play. It's all worth it. The higher the pitch of the music, the more it hurts. G, C, E, A... Such a wonderous cacophony. I not only have a talent, but I have a red blazing passion inside me that cannot be quelled by anything else but more. More intensified sounds swirl in the air. Dissonances to curel and haunting lead to rich, golden tones of major chords. With each passing not, each string pressed upon, a world of color and sound flashes about my eyes and ears. The joy of making such lovely music is nothing compared to my battered hands. They are music makers, and so am I.
Black as the night sky, the hot strings under my finger prints are bleack, but the sound eminating from then is far from it. In fact, that sound shines as bright as the stars found in that night sky. I am weak as King Ahab who found himself under the spell of the voluptuous Jezebel. I have to keep playing, even though it is grueling. I have no choice. I love to play the ukulele.
However, beautiful things can be dangerous. As Jezebel enticed the king of Israel, so the sweet music that echoes through the strings entices me. So many other string instruments, like the one I have the priveledge to play, wear on the fingers untul callouses build. This may take a while, but in the meantime, it causes the finger immense pain. One has to play through this pain if thier desire to play the instrument is great enough. Mine is.
I pluck the harmonious bands that bend against my grip and push them against the cold, hard wood until my fingers blister with a searing pain that freezes them in icy-hot numbness. I play through the pain in my fingers as a soldier trudges into battle. He can't help the feeling he gets knowing that he is protecting his country. The acoustic, folksy sound that rings from my instrument goves me pleasure beyond any I have ever known. As I strum up and down, down and up the neck, warm from my constant playing, my cuticles burn as if they are bleeding, but I continue to play. It's all worth it. The higher the pitch of the music, the more it hurts. G, C, E, A... Such a wonderous cacophony. I not only have a talent, but I have a red blazing passion inside me that cannot be quelled by anything else but more. More intensified sounds swirl in the air. Dissonances to curel and haunting lead to rich, golden tones of major chords. With each passing not, each string pressed upon, a world of color and sound flashes about my eyes and ears. The joy of making such lovely music is nothing compared to my battered hands. They are music makers, and so am I.
Black as the night sky, the hot strings under my finger prints are bleack, but the sound eminating from then is far from it. In fact, that sound shines as bright as the stars found in that night sky. I am weak as King Ahab who found himself under the spell of the voluptuous Jezebel. I have to keep playing, even though it is grueling. I have no choice. I love to play the ukulele.