If you’ve never met Roadie Poet, definitely take a stroll through his archives. It won’t take you long to see why he’s got a cult following all his own.

There’s something drab about
Places like this.
They’re all the same.
Generic.

This is what it looks like
when you’re
a roadie.

The color’s on the outside,
where the paying people sit.

Not here,
where the employees go.

Don’t matter if they’re athletes
musicians,
or roadies.

In the end,
we’re the paid help.
Nothing more.

Not even
the reason
for places like this.

As drab,
generic,
and boring
as they are
back here.

Backstage.

But later,
Oh, later,
this entire building
and every person in it
will pulsate
with the music.

Every rafter,
every tendril of light
that escapes the drapes
we’ll hang
will throb.

Pulsate.
Throb.
Rock.

This is what it will mean
to rock the house.

And it won’t matter
that when you look away
from the stage,
all you’ll see
will be
drab
compared to the
magic
we’re creating.

For you,
the paying people.
Who never get to see
how drab
our existence
sometimes
is.

This was a Three Word Wednesday post. Stop in and see what others have come up with.

No clue where this came from. Or why. Or even how. The Three Word Wednesday words this week were pretty dark — control, flesh, razor — but this… isn’t.

You have to have
control

to slip the blade between the skin and the
flesh.

Like this.
Slow.

Don’t breathe.

Much.

Or talk.

Don’t do that either.

But

Do

Wash the
peach guts
off the
Razor

before you use it

to open

that box

of t-shirts.