There is no forward or back
I can't
Make, Progress
each time is fresh
Besides the fact its baked
under a pilot light
On a stage
The same height
as the eyes of everyone who listens
Im learning lessons each time
But Maybe you aren't even looking
this way
sharing a pint
but really,
you each have your own
thought thats not the point
and Im part
of the furniture
we've argued if I constitute a local
but sometimes you come to a come to a wall
and other times it just grabs you and pulls
you into the sheetrock
I live in a fantasy
Im the best singer
and everyone is listening
I don't know if I am
made of wood or metal yet
this curses will weld
or melt
maybe they will catch flames
but Id expect that they were in the foundations
and really, its simply covered in felt.
A poem about being a musician who isn't paid and plays at open mics. I try to touch upon the fact that without a marker of success it is very difficult to identify progress. I also try to discuss how it is a period for me in which I struggle to see if this is my true career, if I am original, and also touch upon the very conflict between the two- the essence of being artistically liberated and still making it my occupation (artistic compromise) I make a reference to lack of attention found at most open mics and unfortunately some positive attention I got that ended up leaving me devastated (Meeting someone who I would blindly fall in love with)- and this attention wasn't even for being a musician. Ultimately the Irony of an major aspect of my Life.