Music and Poetry

I sat in my car 

Sweating to the sounds 
Of a composer 
Who wrote sheets of music
That he believed would
Never be heard
By anyone else
While writing poetry
That I believed would
Never be read
By anyone else.
 
Such is the irony of our times
Where two artists
Across time and space
Find themselves
Creating just for the thought
Of creation
No money is made
And no bills are paid
Out of a job
Out of a home
And certainly
Out of luck.
Which is always the case when 
Your trying to make yours
To a population that
No longer cares for the music
Or the rhymes
But instead for the dollars, pennies
And dimes. 
 
So I sat in my car 
Sweating to the sounds 
Of a composer 
Who wrote sheets of music
That he believed would
Never be heard
While writing poetry
That I believed would
Never be read.
This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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