Hand on the strings, he waits silently,
he awaits his turn to feel their love.
The curtain closed, all he can hear are cheers,
the sound is ecstasy, but painful as well.

He had toiled hard to reach where he stood
and yet, there was something still amiss.
As the curtains begin to open, like a velvet gate,
he cowers, for the lights burn and the sound is deafening.

The price of love of the mob, only too late,
does he realise is his own sanity, his being.
It is not love but chains that they give him,
binding him, as he does all to please them.

The poet that he was is now vanishing slowly,
as all descends into chaos, his verses dead of emotion.
Each day mirrors the next, no more can he write
for himself, at the will of the mob he stays.

You call it fame, he calls it pain and slavery,
devoid of a true companion, the artist shall crumble.
His guitar still in his hand, his only true friend,
as he pastes his smile and pleases the crowd again.

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