The Soloist
#2 of Poetry
Foreward:
There are certain joys that can only be experienced alone.
Another poem out of me! I'm still not considering myself a poet, but I must say, I'm growing more and more familiar with it. This was another idea that got stuck in my head that I just had to write down. I was shooting for more structure as opposed to free-verse, which I feel I accomplished. I also wanted this to be a bit silly, but I don't think I quite managed that. Oh, well, better luck next time!
Again, labelled mature for interpretive reasons. Yes, that's why. ;)
As always, I would very much appreciate any criticism or comments you have about this work. I use it to improve my work and grow as a writer. If you have anything to say about this piece, be it "This sounds funny . . . " of "HOLY S*%& FLYING WEASELS ATE MY FACE BECAUSE I READ THIS!!" tell me in a comment or a message. I do my utmost to respond and act upon it in following works. I would also like to thank Mr. Eupherious and several other friends for looking over this poems and telling me what they think so it wouldn't suck too bad.
Enjoy the poem!
Content copyright Sneeze 2010. Please don't use without permission.
The Soloist
Who is to say, the joy one finds when alone?
What music is forbidden to the lone
musician, seeking his own sound, own tone?
His options are limitless to blow and groan
to scream and wail and huff
a sound he may make rough.
He does not need any other player,
an accompaniment would never fare
in the world of this soloist's flair.
His composition will shake ground and air;
the joy of others is lost
as he delves into his plot.
He needs no invitation, no missive
asking for his service. The mood gives
him his purpose; he acts as he pleases.
He may play at any venue he wishes;
when the mood strikes he will
play for his own thrill.
When he plays he grips his instrument
surely, no mistaking his intent.
He will play with passion, he will vent.
He will extract the purpose divinely sent.
And he will sing and play
till the end of the day
if that is his wish. He will dance and move
sometimes without rhythm, sometimes with a groove.
He has nothing to lose, nothing to prove,
and with reckless abandon he will move
up and down, fast and slow
with each huff and gruff and blow.
His excitement will mount, ecstasy rise;
the room will shrink to impossible size
as his performance grows, emotion flies.
Steadily the soloist reaches his prize.
Neither love nor lust heed
him on his journey, but need.
His exhibition will climax but not end.
He continues on until he can send
his white hot notes running off to fend
for themselves in the watery descent,
the final plunge they must take
all for their creator's sake.
He will wipe his instrument clean with care
and replace it in its case; it belongs there.
He did not need others to play this fare
nor was his song meant to be shared.
But who knows how he had to fly
to feel truly satisfied?