Armed
Withwords as swords
Piercingcold hearts
Startingwith their own
Theygather
Likepups queueing for the teat
Inthe shape
Of amicrophone
Itcalls out their names
Oneby one they
Stepinto the spotlight
Thelie detector of the soul.
Onesong, then another
Abandonedmisery
Lostloves
Imaginationshidden truths
Andpain sweet chords
Cannotdisguise.
Songwriternights
Theboys who never quit
Tholife chose for them
Apathway different
Fromthat of the
Troubsdour
Theyoung whelps
Eager
Tobecome their heroes
Craftinglyrics
Asmuch for each other
Asfor those they hope
Willfill the tip jar
Theladies who
Wonderif they belong
Inthe boys' clubs
Thatsee a girl
Asbackup singer
Ormore
Untilthey realize
Theyare just as wild
Atheart
Ontheir own adventures
Lookingfor America
LikePaul or maybe Carly
Simon.
Theyare really seeking
Validation
Thattheir songs are real
In atime
Whenmachines spit out
Hitafter hit
Allthe clever words
Fromnobody
Youcan talk to
Jamwith
Gofishing
Eatbarbecue
Talkabout the weirdest
Musiciansand gigs
Andabout the bars
Wherethey were stars
Andthose awkward moments
Whenno one showed up
Andstill they sang
Tothe silent secret crowd
Theyknew
Wereout there somewhere.
Becausethe song
Isits own reward
Sharingyour gifts
Likeopening Christmas presents
Arounda campfire
Oranywhere families gather.
Songwritingcreates whole
Communities
Boundby shared honesty
Thatsees right through
Thepretensions
Offirst timers
Andsees the hurting hearts
Ofthe wanderers.
Fewothers get the message.
Thatthese are not concerts
Butmusical cookouts
Wherethe familiar
Isas welcome
Asthe half-done fragments
Stillawaiting the muse.
