Strumming the guitar with his chapped fingertips,
The rhythm flows through his every cell,
His eyes flicker to the tiny drops of blood,
Never feeling satisfied,
Wanting perfection becomes a boon and a bane,
He knew his destination was not an easy path,
By now he was far away from home,
His head was a clutter of chaos,
Never did he want it any other way.
His heart was stringed and open with wounds,
And the journey was the only one that could mend them.