Audience of One

I play to an audience of one.

Well that at least is my goal after a lifetime of getting people to notice me.

Pat me on the back.

Acknowledge my talent.

Oh don’t get me wrong, I have gotten plenty of praise; in fact I have spent the last year recounting all my accomplishment of the first quarter of what I pray will be a long life.

I couldn’t let it in. I didn’t know how. Well, actually I knew how, I just didn’t believe it. Friends, and onlookers boosted my sensitive and brave dedication to my work

with a bit of smirk to the fact that I was born into the profession. I felt lucky. I felt anointed by this gran-DAME-faloon.

I was fooled. Each eye ball in the audience of the latest tap dance and sing song made more gape at how I represent the reputation and less on whether I was good or not.

I was good.

I didn’t feel it;

though I knew it to be a gift and bore a respect from me beyond accolades.

I now play to an audience of one. Since at every turn the people who’s attention that I was seeking was not seeking me. Only pressure to make good of my name. They thought me to have a leg up.

A helping hand.

A guaranteed spot as

an opener at the jazz club or apple fest. Not without an instrument or a voice. What I do is geek food and not fit for my image to the local fame those boys laid down for me to walk through.

I stopped inviting.

Really begging.

To show up to the hobby mic, open and raw would go against all the sacrifice that under the radar paved way.

I thought it was me.

I tried not to care much because I had friends, lovers and an eclectic crew lost on the same path. Pretending I’m not bothered and they don’t know what they are missing mantra.

I must play to an audience of one. Daddy is not coming and the rest follow suit. I am just sad that I wasted time wishing and wanting, like I had a choice. I was born into it.

Success come

to those who bow down and impress him off the throne.

Too busy.

Too legit with a line of people at the door ready to love me for it’s shear relation.

Good enough for me. I tell myself, thinking I’m not bothered yet necessary to keep it going. A badge of admiration I was set my pride upon, now is my greatest regret. But what could I do.

To think

otherwise is to be a disgrace and nobody wants that. I just wanted a piece. My part of the fun. My birthright that I couldn’t escape if I wanted too. Instrument placed in my hand out the canal and no child dares to defy it. Luckily I loved it.

I loved them more.

See me. Not ever.


I stopped inviting.

Really begging.

I got what I needed. I have the DNA and I don’t like dive bars or cover bands much anyway, so no skin off…. she can fill in the rest. That’s if you haven’t heard already. Another disappointment but two out of four ain’t bad. Well, one out of four, though

she still invited.

Really begs.

They are a better bet anyway. Instruments and amplifiers are the only acceptable form to repel the geeks. Microphone, open and raw never counts in the display world.

I play to an audience of one.

Well trying. Praying Really.

I stopped inviting and it saved me.

dust to dust

horn to horn

A song for the geeks and the gift to me

the audience

beg I


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