Every fret of my guitar is marked with a bruise from my life with it. I hope some day I'll remember them all.

I remember when I scratched fret one.
In my heart and soul I didnt care,
the mirror grimaced at what I'd done,
Then returned my impassive stare.
One absent minded night at home,
strumming to death when drunk and alone.
Stared at the mirror, lost in its eyes.

Frustrated more with each sound I made,
And watching the dawn's sun slowly rise.

A finale on the 2nd fret,
a bent and broken string.
That came too early on the 2nd song
For me to let the talent ring,
Onstage on trial and everything.

(As I sang my final note,
And find the me that others see,
the me I dont know how to be,
The reflection in the mirror.)


The 3rd fret grazed by love.
No need for details here.
But playing on the strings of love,
And my guitar was too near.
This scratch I hold dear.

The 4th fret slightly out of shape,
A compromise from overwork,
Just playing wear into the wood,
Worn down by songs misunderstood,
Not playing music like I should,
My gift to the guitar.

The fifth fret forked with sadness.
Bent the notes of the loss of love,
that fill the heart with emptiness.
Reminds of times of lonelyness.

The sadness of a midwinter day,
Of all those words I had to say.
Learned to grow, and to live on,
And how to write the saddest songs.
Everything I need to know,
tattooed into that little groove.

Fret number six stands out unmarked,
A testament to composition,
A proud and varnished inch of wood,
From my rare moments of precision.
No story in its unmarked state,
No scratch or tear or hurt to date.

Fret number seven, lucky,
Just a little scorched black graze,
A falling rock fell from above,
While I was in a daze.
And branded my mark forever with
Reminders of a smokey haze,
Of how I passed those college days.

Fret eight marks out my first bad song,
A minor thing, a little flourish,
The memory of which long since gone.
A memory I'd never cherish,
A song of pain written alone, of
My eyes lost on a little thing,
A little pretty aged 16 thing,
Not a girl but an evil dream,
A paradigm of how love seemed,
Till she ripped my young heart out
And asked me to forgive her
but still she was a bitch,
And still I have my guitar.

Fret nine and ten and on again,
Tell tales of more recent times,
Coming to terms with the world of men,
Of rights I never saw in rhyme,
Of ups and downs since adulthood,
And fights I had no right to fight.
Up to twelve, beyond and flying,
A solo time in life and dreams,
With 22 frets for 22 years,
22 stories, and 22 dreams,
None to fruition, and none are dead,
I'm not behind but neither ahead.
But these grazes are why I play songs,
A memory I play on and on,
How each mark on my guitar,
Tells the tale of my life so far,
My silent brother in my arms,
When we fall we'll fall together,
What I've forgotten my guitar remembers.