they leave shit-heel towns, suitcase in hand.
maybe they carry a beat-up guitar case,
or a raggedy chap book of poems...
an actors line-or-two...
a singing voice.
they head for la-la land, or the big apple.
they are swallowed up.
their so-called talents are ignored.
and in the great neon-world of their minds,
they still truly believe in their "genius".
they ain't shit.
theirs is the definition of insanity...
doing the same thing over, and over, and over again...
and expecting different results.
oh, those poor souls.
a few of them actually "make it".
most of them become petulant, self-absorbed assholes.
they are lionized, idolized, iconized, canonized.
but they ain't saints.
they're still fucked-up people.
all of it becomes a pain in the ass.
"fuck it all", they say.
"bring me back to my small town".
suitcase in hand, the losers leave and head back.
they leave their dreams and the moronic herd.
they leave the idol worshippers.
yes, they go back to cornfields or factory jobs.
they leave behind the fortunate ones.
the ones whose souls have been sucked out of them by:
booze, drugs, sex, fame.
yeah, fuck it all.
maybe you were hip,
but it was a long time ago, baby.
rich or poor, unknown or famous...
pain is the only reality.
they now know this to be true,
the lucky ones.
so pick up your bedroll, traveler.
press on and find your new home.
in this time of change you'll come to realize truth:
that when you've reached the zenith,
you've actually hit your nadir.
reality comes and you will begin to know peace.
you might meet yourself for the first time.