by Justin K. Hite | @justinhiteart
You shake to write the words on the paper-
The answers on the back of a napkin.
Based off of struggle, love and despair.
And taking fight to the stage,
Under the blinding lights and screaming fans,
You find yourself revealing nakedly, all of the truths (and lies), in front of strangers and friends, alike.
You shout, you strum, you dance, you weep. You fool.
Infused with the blood that runs through, you're left with your vices, you're idle (Your Idol).
You Play, as they scream your name,
The party goes on til five, where you collapse.
They awaken to their normal lives, their jobs, themselves.
But the smudged eyeliner's now bruised to your crusty eye,
and you're weaker than just that day before.
"Livin' the life, man.
I'm on the cover of a magazine!"
Chasing stardom to finally overcome the hunger, the filth, the pain.
Those bones are brittle, that blood is thin.
Your twenties are over, you've lost a friend.
Promises of prosperity never granted.
No time for family. You move too fast for love.
Now in debt to rock n' roll.
Capsules and spirits, they're breakfast and lunch.
With that appetite for destruction.
Your songs, your dance, all now mean so much.
To the adorer, the prize fighter takes battle,
and delivers relief through that solution of music.
You've become the idol. (Idle). The soulless, study.
To the artist, demigod, and hero.
A testament. A sacrifice. Cliche'.
To encompass and embed this all, to live it, to become one.
Space monkey, blast off to outer space.
He's become the subject, victim.
of our modern, living stills.
Just press "Play."