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Monday, Jan 16, 2012 @ 1:01 AM
There are far greater depths
where one's soul often sinks,
when the brain cells all starve and can no longer think,
where a writer too often is left on the brink,
to abandon the task and be gone in a blink.
Coining phrases and yet never gaining coined praise,
penning unpublished workstill the end of their days,
where their reach exceeds any success they will grasp,
yet they'll still sing unheard songs with their dying gasp.
The music that calls them to capture its beauty,
is often illusion bidding them to their duty
to pen masterpieces in which they truly believe,
songs the masses of listenerssimply fail to perceive.
To work and re-work a tune till is is beaten
always looking for some hook or note that will sweeten,
the hit that becomes just a smack in the face,
till their muse comes around with new songs to embrace.
I know, I have walked down despairs darkest alleys,
my dreams in cardboard boxes where failures are tallied
homeless wraiths near the backdoors of studio rejections,
scarred in red ink that tattoos their great imperfections.
The first one hundred songs that you write, truth be told
are just practice, mostly efforts that will never be sold,
oh, so many good songwriters fail to control,
all their screams, meant as whispers that pour from their soul.
But my muse is a demon, a cruel workaholic,
and I'll not be a free man till I craft what's bucolic,
in the ears of producers seeking something that rocks
as I fail each exam in their schools of hard knocks.
So it's back to the sound boards and my faithful guitar,
like a miner seeking gold with only dust in his jar,
till the right combination brings sensations in song,
where each note is important, and nothing's played wrong
then I'll reach that bright stage where I truly belong.
ArtWhimsically Yours studio MFB III Productions-(c)-2012