Topic: Music Virus
Chatting with a street busker I came up with this poem as a result of our conversation. It is not just about talking to him but me picking out bits of what we talked about and the universal emotions that come from being a muso.
He said to me he has the music virus.
There no such virus said I.
My eyes starting rolling looking at this guy.
He said that isn’t true.
I said tell me your point of view.
Did you catch it from a hen.
What are the symptoms my friend.
Are you going around the bend.
Is it something you can mend.
It started with a guitar.
He said left one morning on my bed.
From my dear mama.
I loved that guitar.
Now I’m a mix of confidence and self doubt.
One minute bullet proof and full of self belief.
Next second I’m filled with trembling insecurity.
An awful feeling like my music has no teeth.
I can't get any help.
I can't get any relief.
I'm just a busker on the street.
My life's like a record stuck on repeat.