White Guitar Pick (poem)

I play my guitar with a white pick
and sometimes it happens, that for no reason
I’m playing away and I DROP IT!

I know from the past what will follow.
It will vanish mid air before it hits the ground
and nothing on earth can find where it’s gone.

I speak from the past. I speak from the present.
I’ve learned to accept it as one of life’s lessons.
Whomever hexed me and my packet of picks,

you’ve done a most admirable job of it.
But next time I hope what you wrought to wrought
you’d rethink that hex, and decide to stop.

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