News drives me to the guitar,
an artifact packed away
in the closet;
I want to scream
but know singing is safer,
keeps me off the leash;
an enemy of the state of things;
fingers flutter over rusty strings;
I want to sing
of revolution, in words
too strong for an algorithm
designed for addiction,
not dissent;
to tear through the heart
of polite rhetoric,
to grab lapels in tight fists
and demand logic from
the madness.
The words come easy
but the chords take time;
10,000 hours
is the death of me,
too busy learning while
the doing remains undone,
the immediacy becoming
history if I allow it to pass,
forcing fingers between frets,
playing notes
only I can hear.
©2026, Dan Schell, Flex Your Head Books