they play the guitar on the weekends

they were self-taught in high school

they thought they would be a Rockstar

as creeping age, creeps in

it’s a dying dream

they play at weddings

they play to ignore their tears

their life feels like it’s hanging by a thread

good job

good friends

good neighborhood

good schools

a boss who is pleased until they are displeased

reminding them

of their insecurity

when climbing up their thread

closer

it belongs to them

out of reach

dangling

taunting

laughing

while humanity is watching

until they aren’t

someone threatens to sever your line,

your carefully constructed life line

“to hell with them”

you release

for dreams

untied

it’s not for a Rolls or a Golden Glider

you must know, you tried.