Face The Music (Spoken Word)

Face the Music

Meet the musician, in these shoes from the age of eight
Thought the stage was great, from blues to sharp rage and hate
Couldn't change his fate, he aspired to the prized star status
But underlying the land of music lies a dark lattice
He was quite cool in high school with the same ardent hope
Of fame and glorious shows; yet, no valued parchment notes
His first taste of tug-of-war; the strange hardened rope
With which musicians hang themselves; cash margin's scope

Fast forward, past ordered homework and parent support
Truthful things prove youthful dreams come up inherently short
Meet the musician, he struggles at poverty level
Since the entire industry is a robbery vessel
He'll play for the love but that doesn't pay for his stuff
Wants a unique route, but it's obey or be crushed
They'll slowly bleed your fable, to succeed you need a label
Work for attention, even if food doesn't see the table
As is, our musician can only book low-key venues
As a nameless artist on a lonely menu
Owners expect him to show respect by bringing sales
But offer no compensation; plus outraged screaming fails
Not even gas money, that's crummy, travel excluded
Revolving artists, shows continue after talent's been looted

A fan base is pre-requisite to opportunity
So he takes time to invest in the community
Insufficient size for a worldwide reputation
Requires resources beyond internal dedication
A promoter; payments before services rendered
Untested, yet invested before the worth of it's tendered
On what capital? He makes minimum wage
And zero gains for self when his instrument plays
So he saves, every dime and assembles scraps
Only to fall further in the monumental trap
Artists are self-made, in a way, which stands a paradox
When they end up too broke to afford a pair of socks
He barely eats, luckily there's no family
To starve alongside him, lonely, such tragedy
We find our musician, face less, behind his music
His muffled crying playing notes in a blind acoustic
Clouds of blue depression pressing in on all sides
Drowning his ambitions in liquid like tall tides
Labels can't sign if you're impossible to discover
But money precedes expansion, one obstacle to another

Meet our musician, he's done being entertainment
Done being stomped on, exploited, and unable to pay rent
Got the phone, he's not alone, we control the industry
Hit them in a spot that's prone, unroll new history
We are the life blood, without us, the machine stops
Stop watering our oppressors when they need crops
Our melody and verses feed them all except
The actual artists who somehow fall exempt
We will not produce until equal rights are given
Til we're not treated like slaves or like we're children
That glamorous life of fame is a sliver of truth
Real artist struggle, afraid, while they quiver in booths
But no more; he promoted, rallied, grew, vigilant effort
As he led tactically like a militant expert
All he needs is volume, steadfast members in the ranks
He's recruiting you, we can be remembered and have thanks
Without us, naturally, music ceases to exist
The rampage will continue to increase till we're pissed
He is I, and we are them, embrace the movement
The project I've aptly named  'Face the Music'