“It's gettin' hard to please 'em
You start to feel the rub
You know it isn't easy
Well, welcome to the club
Come on and join us in the club.”
– Joe Walsh
The marquee glares with brilliant light.
A talent takes stage to delight.
Too many hours, too long the show
Painful pressure in too hot glow.
How much more can they surely take
before they crumble and then break?
They are ever pressured for more
and always seem stressed to the core.
What more is left after they give
memories for fans to relive?
Choking on their artistic fame,
each breath becomes a burning flame.
Fraught with fear of losing the edge.
closer and closer they get to the ledge,
Woefully, they bend, twist, and crack;
pushed too far to ever come back.
Might 27 be given
to those depressively driven?
Another club’s members alive;
the ones who struggle, yet survive.
eighty eight
keys with only
eight fingers and
two thumbs to plunk
away at what
ever i want to say
expressively or
depressively or
possably atonally
not anally retentive
that i need every
note rote
but i need
to finish this
and submit this
poem in less than
three minutes
to make my day
as i told mi Musa
a day of instrument
poetry
so i bid
thee a silent
symphony at my
fingertips
not to forget
the metronome
time clock and slow
myself
to an easy
carefree piece
in adagio
At some point on the edge of this human trial
of being frustrated, angry and tired
I stopped posting for awhile,
the exposes of this burning world on fire.
Did you notice I was gone
when so many others sang their songs?
Sitting back, stepping away from the torrent
observations on the earth left me depressively abhorrent.
How did we get to here
with lives are so lost upon this revolving sphere?
History will judge us by what occurs these days
wonder how the truth will be displayed
by the writers who emote
the words and actions spoke.
The times will come again
when the populace will surely take a stand
resuming and reigniting the moral gland
that lies deeply embedded within man.
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