A little background: My mother Always preferred I stick with the poetry.
Sure, poets die much earlier Than other authors
But music Can destroy you so fast You never see the needle coming Never know you are the moth Or feel the fire, never Sense the singeing of your wings; You just explode, so young Into the light.
She said "Don't try out For American Idol. You probably Wouldn't like it anyway."
My father Feels differently. See, he always thought I was the next Adele Or before that Ethel Merman; "Lawrence Welk would have loved you" He'd say.
Like all a person does is just Start singing, and it Happens.
Brilliance bumps into fame At random, a Half-drunk soprano Wanders into a seedy bar Thumbs through thin catalogs Of karaoke Wins a contest She didn't mean to enter Manages to fool the game Without playing.
I don't know, But I think there is a reason Gaga dresses up like hamburger Or lightning; Declines far more interviews Than she accepts.
She isn't British. We wouldn't let her be herself However she might like to.
That skeletal frame Makes fame a little easier - she's lucky To have been born that way.
One can imagine, If Adelle was from Nebraska: She'd be popping diuretics, Experimenting with bulimia By now; Writing songs about the lonely ache Of detox In New York.
~CRH May 2012 Note: Feel free to share my work with others, but please make sure to use my name if you do.