Wednesday, March 9, 2016

Richard Schnap- A Poem


He composed his songs
In a feverish rush
Like babies impatient
To be born

Recording them on
Half-priced cassettes
In the unheated room
He called home

Then sending them out
To those that he hoped
Would christen him the
Next big thing

Only to find them
In a used record store
Among dozens selling for
A quarter

1 comment:

  1. Our fantasies interact with reality and eventually
    we get the real deal. Not always what we want, but
    we can get a better perspective of what we need to do.