Destitute Guitar: Sunday Report

Rarity,

    A post like this: Normally I reserve all opinion, in current human form, and thus bestow upon the world naught but my endless banter of poetic vernacular, but today...! Oh, today I must give report of the circumstances as to why I wrote the Destitute Guitar Poem and began The Obstructing Justice Poetry Series. It all started last week whilst on vacation, for the first time ever at age... *insert really old age here* for the first time in my life, in the wonderfully unique and inspiring city of Berlin.

    Sadly the instance for inspiration was not hopeful, as one might hope from such an amazing, liberally equal city. Coming down from the trains in Alexanderplatz Station, right across from the dry cleaners it all occurred and it made my heart wrench and gut ache. Myself and my Partner in Crime were physically sick for the remainder of the afternoon due to the sorrow we both witnessed.

     We were on our way to Kruezburg for a walk before the rain hit, coming down from the trains headed towards the subway, when we say a young lad propped up against a pillar... Crying. His tears were those of one forlorn, devoid of all hope, eyes nearly destitute grey with mourning for the loss of hope.

     Beside the young man with long brown hair, a quasi clean shaven face, who wore a green jumper and ratty blue jeans, there was placed a black soft shell guitar case, but there was no beautiful overture instrument within. It was in his hands, but he was not playing it, weeping for our woes as we passed, his depth of consciousness and intellectual prowess looking down from side walk heaven in heart felt ache, no. However amazingly skilled at his craft and pleasant of being and IQ the lad was, was lost.

     For in his hands was the guitar, as I said, in a night terror alive, two.

     The head had been broken off, away from him walked several youth, sneering and whispering as if they knew the plot that destroyed the young destitute man's hopes for a better off not alone tomorrow and for any sort of, not on the street sleep tonight dreams. From what I gathered, through perceptive ever presence and assumption, not being fluent in German, that they may or may not have destroyed the object of the young man's heart. I was too heart emotion sick to stop or ask my other half to piece together, herself rough around the translation edges with German, what it was that they had been sniggering at saying about the iris tidal swollen cocoon of tears lad. 

      Since I know not German well enough I did not stop and do more for the lad, performing my poetry to raise funds on the corner for him, as that might have caused a much more traumatic and worse scenario for him.

    I am a not quite starving artist, working full time besides doing all the content art that you see and working on a novel series, on top of trying to be... Yes, well. Trying to be, let's just leave it at that for now. So I wrote poetry on the subway, hoping it would one day find its way back to the broken man. But this, now is not enough. I will sell a guitar I won last year, that I cannot play well enough to validate keeping. Thusly will I procure a small amount of funds to 'give' to a friend in Berlin in hopes that the guitar they buy, might reach this young man and restore... Well, whatever it does, I prey it allow him to play it in the future.

In earnest anticipation of,
J The Villain

Ps. I challenge the morality in you, discover the truth, care, share this most hidden gem of a virtue: Equality in daily repair, thriving inside of you.

PPs. The Plan is to email the poems, along with this post off to several contacts, a few German magazines and news papers in Berlin in hopes they might 'help,' whatever that means today, in this derelict moral trench age, along with the funds raised from the selling of my guitar, when it sells.