I never thought that I would have my heart broken by a city. It wasn't just the men and the music; It was the eternal hope and subsequent disappointment.
I didn't go there with dreams in a guitar case. My hands have always been too small to wrap around the neck anyway. I went for the experience, with a notebook to my name.
The most incredible voices echo through the streets Like wind through bare New England oaks; It's haunting, comforting, met with silence.
I leaned over the edge of a balcony and thought, How many people have jumped? Because the thing is: you don't make it in Music City. You try and try and try and try and then you go home.
I met a man on a street corner, a shy, sweet little thing. Two months later he was back in Dublin, playing in pubs. A raspy, long-haired rock-and-roll singer howled into the night, And he didn't sing again for months. Not until his vocal cords recovered. Five Scotsmen took the breath away from a hundred people; They went on "hiatus" a few weeks ago. But there was such hope in their voices, in their smiles. And it broke my heart.
I long for Nashvillian streets beneath my feet once more. I want to feel the desire and passion in the air, Circulating like cigarette smoke outside the smallest venues. I risk my sanity by inviting the hopeful and the hopeless into my heart. At least I'll get a poem or two out of it, And maybe they'll get a song.