to my rock star
O, rock star, my rock star, how I envy you. I envy your fast-moving life, your reckless and somewhat careless nature, the fluid and sinewy movements of your body, the enticing, too-full-of-yourself shit-eating grin on your gaunt yet ecstatic face, your dreams and passions that you constantly wear on your sleeves, the obvious strain on your neck as you carry out each note that sounds like it’s dredged out from the deepest nook in your gut, which a sentimental person like me would’ve called ‘heart’, the visible bulging veins along your forearms as your hand gripped your guitar’s neck while the other strummed the strings, drawing out riffs by riffs that tear my mind apart only to glue it back together again, and then I’d sigh in a tortured bliss of oblivion, because you fuckin’ freed me from myself and the mad stuffs my brain made up so relentlessly, your shortcomings and your greed and your tendencies to be deviant, and even when you give the finger to every ass-kisser in this self-entitled society, I do envy you.
Dear my rock star, I fell for your whole being and the mere idea of you and everything else you represent and stand for. I’ve been in love with you since I first saw you emerging on the stage, walking toward the exaggerated spotlights with the determined poise of a man heading to his own execution, even though I have no clue about what love truly means. I do not call you a ‘rock star’ because you spend half of your life touring across the globe, get your measly dose of slumber in first class buses and vans and planes, with millions of adoring fans and an overwhelming line of willing chicks gaping at your metal-studded feet. You’re my rock star because you are a star. Your light is flickering faintly, yet steadily; strong, like a rock would be.
Hey, my rock star, you are my salvation, my guilty absolute pleasure. You made me feel, even if it was pain. You are the sermon of my first step into each struggle I have to fight, and you sing me lullabies as I rest my head on the ruins of my battlefield. Your voice will be the death of me, as it will be the trigger of my ressurection.
- WPL