I wrote this a long time ago. It’s a completely non-autobiographical poem about a troubled rock ‘n’ roll star.
A sea of faces stare in anticipation,
the bass drum kicks wicked repetition.
Guitar licks echo as the wind swirls,
my brow furrows at the swooning girls.
Every word I sing,
every reprise I bring,
makes them crazy – their toes in curls.
It’s not the sound of my voice,
irrelevant is any given word choice.
It’s not the chords from my guitar,
that bring them here from near and far.
The stadium is full,
which seems like such bull.
Who am I that should command such a star?
But here I stand, singing my song,
each word meaningless, everything wrong.
But still they scream, their lighters waving,
not knowing why they’re all craving,
in the windy night that they’re all braving.
My face is soaked, I’m filled with fears,
it’s not raining, I’m covered in tears.
It makes no sense, what have I done?
One would think it would be fun
to have written a song,
to which they sing along.
Tonight I make love to my gun.