The Missing Strings
My uncle sat there picking the same worn chords
Dust and warm cables, that smell still hangs in the air
One day he passed me his old electric guitar
No strings, no sound—just the weight of something I craved
At school they lined up trumpets and pianos
Kids in frayed winter boots waited their turn
But nobody told me how to get on the list
So the chance drifted off, and I barely noticed
Missing strings, songs I never learned
Dreams that never got a real beginning
Still the music lingered close somehow
Around a kid who only watched and wanted
As a teenager I dreamed I’d front a band
Stand with the mic, pretend I fit right in
They laughed straight to my face—“you can’t sing”
So I wrote instead, hoping the words would carry weight
Not sure if they were poems or half-finished lyrics
Just stuff I had to get out of my skull
Most got thrown away, gone for good
But back then they were the only voice I owned
Missing strings, songs I never dared
Dreams that never got a real beginning
Still the music stayed in the background
Around a boy who only watched and wanted
At thirty-five I gave it another shot
Bought a beat-up guitar from a shop shutting down
Tried an online course, but my fingers refused
And that old voice crept back, the one from childhood:
“You’re not musical. Never were.”
It landed harder than I thought it could
Now I’m fifty, still scribbling late at night
Small melodies that slip in when the house goes still
No crowd, no band, no lights or stage
Just me and the tunes that never walked away
Missing strings, songs that stayed unheard
Dreams that followed me regardless
Maybe I never learned to play for real
But music’s lived inside every scar I carry
Discography
Albums
Singles
