COMPOSER

Clips of melodic minutia sliced,
diced and restructured to sound
like the symphony in his head.
Dreading the chore, hoping to jam instead
but the first measure seems undone,
no fun until he gets to the bridge.
Crossing out a whole movement,
his groove seem gone and his hand
aches from pounding the same key
over and over hoping it catches fire.
His only desire is to rework "Chopsticks'
to sound like Handel's "Messiah",
So, he tinkles and trills,
until it fills his head with the
sound which he seeks. He peeks
over his shoulder to see if anyone's heard.
He dreams of airplay, and everyday
he is back to the grind, tired and bored,
hoping to find the lost chord.
It's in his head. It was born in his soul.
And he believes, when it gets into his heart
he will lose all control. Big dreams die hard.
He knows in the end, he will just decompose.