My Jazz, My Love

I tap my fingers to the table,

Wondering if I'm ever going to get

The rent money that I'm supposed

To get paid for by the end of this week.

I've been singing my heart out,

Pouring my soul out into every

Word; every syllable that ever comes

Flowing towards my chapped up lips.

My music is my passion, but my

Singin' voice in my savior, and is stitched

Into every inch of my body.

It's saved me in the bad ruts in my life,

And helped me out whenever I was fellin' down.

I know the people in the club booths

Don't give a damn, and niether does my manager.

But they don't get what feeling alive with music

In your heart is like; so I guess I shouldn't let

Them really get under my skin or into my head.

...And hey. I think I've got an idea for a new song.

So leave me alone, I must write until the crack of

Dawn seeps into the tainted windows....

 

Author's Note

This is in the POV of a jazz singer.
Credit: Etta James

Reviews

[talulu love]

very goood wow

[Creepy Swine Guy]

I understand what you are trying to get to here, but I had two niggles.

First, as I read the first three lines I thought that the narrator was a landlord looking for her tenant to pay the rent. I don't know if others who read this got that confusion too, I AM a slow-witted old man.

Second, it had the feel of being more like someone talking to her friend over a drink, than it had a poetic feel to me. Maybe that was what you were going for, or maybe I just don't know how to savor a good poem. I refer you back to my status as a slow-witted old man.