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 is too often
left on the brink,
to abandon such tasks
and be gone in a blink.
Coining phrases and yet
never gaining coined praise,
unpublished works till
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.
Music that calls them
to capture its beauty,
is often illusion bidding
them to their duty
to pen masterpieces
that they truly believe in,
songs the masses of listeners
simply are not percieving
To work and re-work
a tune till is is beaten
always looking for some hook
or note that'll 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 staggered
down despairs darkest alleys,
finding cardboard boxed dreams
where my failures are tallied
homeless wraithes round the
back doors of studios rejections,
scarred in red ink that tattoos
their great imperfections.
The first hundred songs that
you write, truth be told
are practice, mostly efforts
that will never be sold,
oh, so many good songwriters
they 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 songs that frolic
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–©-2020
Matthew F. Blowers III Productions
Artwork by me: –©-2020-MFB III
