Reigning over the folk-pop genre, he tells the stories of dreamers without nightmares – lovers without cliffs and love without fools. He spills through the blue inks of his writing pen the guardians of memories, the protectors of the hearts, and the saints of the martyrs. He lives for the lyricism speaking itself along with the riffs of his acoustic guitar for a face of expressive thoughts.
But he hides it so well – the lingering cuts and bruises inside his veins; the oxygen trespassing his lungs is long gone, ever since she left.
All he has are the vivid memories crying for the soul of the true person in flesh.
Before the open window in his bedroom, the sun enters and his nostrils catches the sound of the winds. Lounging beside his desk, he props his guitar over his lap – holding the position still.
He wishes he can speak the words he has been dying to say – the truth of his wounded heart; the sorrow grasping the head of a musician.
But he cannot.
It is all too much – his fragile image unsafe in the influenced world.
Along with the solemn chirps of the bird, his first strum begins.
this was my entry for flash! friday vol. 3 – 50. i feel the crave to post it here.
WORD COUNT: 198
Thank you for reading this story. If you want to talk about random things with me, do not hesitate to reach me through my “Contact” page. All the best love, my dear.