Guitars leaning against the wall have little purpose
Quiet as they come--only until plucked by a master
Gathering dust as forgotten by the wayside
No use to the world when a song cannot soar
Tuned improperly can cause more harm than good
We are the silent beings with no meaning
Placed away until needed

Books without words, songs without a beat, this life—a meaningless masquerade

Those who have felt the hand of a master
Can feel the muse running through
Trying to relate this happening
To that of whom has yet to feel a song
Is a pointless infraction to their life
A skilled hand must pluck the first strings
Too bad that many are just placed away without

True beauty is in that song being played
Not just running over the surface
But reverberating throughout the guitar itself
Too few true musicians play
And those lucky enough to have felt it
Usually find their home on a shelf
Little more comes from them if at all

Complacency—a silent killer
Complacency—a quiet death
Complacent on a shelf forever.