free-verse
Pink scars, old guitars, and sweet cigars.
All perfectly lined, each in it’s own place.
The little pink soldiers shrink with age,
The pain that caused them fades.
The old guitars grant new scars
As callouses build on his fingertips.
Harmony that heals the heart
Flows from the hollow chest.
The cigars are lined on the table
Waiting to fulfill their purpose.
He strums chords, and tastes smoke,
As he waits for his friends.
They come sharing bare arms
Carrying old guitars
With lighters sparked.
Primitive Poetry 