The Artist
"An actor has to burn inside with an outer ease."- Michael Chekhov
It's a kind of infection; the madness to reach for the stars
To go once more into the breach for your art
To suffer the slings and the arrows of outrageous fortune
To die a thousand deaths when the camera turns towards you
To stand on stage like a deer with it's head in the lights
With traitor nerves trying to impale me on adrenalin spikes
I put my sweat into the scenery, my blood into the sound desk
It's been a million miles and running but I'm not homeward bound yet
Every line under a microscope, every pause a quiet lesson
Every word; an autopsy to find the perfect inflection
My tears at every rejection, relationships? All stillborn
No wife to wed, no kids to raise; just a part you'd kill for!
Face the death march through the curtain as I'm drawn to the noose
They're hanging on my every word, so please don't call out a letter
To face my firing squad; bullets fired as a chorus of boos
Spare the blindfold, please, for this unfettered go getter
Weariness is my bitter friend, his jokes are gallows humour
"Stop choking on your pride boy! You should've swallowed sooner!
No sleep? No excuse! You're sick? Suck it up!
It's 3 months until this tour ends and no-one gives a fuck!"
I'm searching for the Midas touch; a script minted in gold
The road bears my footfalls so often, they're imprinted in stone
A man must suffer for his art; and of course that's passé
But to climb this mountain I'll flog the dead horse to pâté
This torrential brain storm is the Clash of the Titans
So I'll paint the perfect picture by flashes of lightning
A round of applause at the curtain call; the eternal rush to me
Bloodied, bowed, but not unbroken, I'll still hold up my dream