Fruit cakes in alleyways. Starving actors for pay. <br />Mixed in the shuffle of the city. That is to say the billboardians. <br />You walk down L.A. streets <br />You feel the sweat on your hands and the cold on your neck. <br />You see rainbows on bumpers and doors slamming shut. <br />And hazy orange glow provided by lamp posts <br />The comfortable stare of a stranger on a bike <br />And the fear of seeing someone you know. <br />The dream still follows you <br />Though once gold and pure, young and innocent <br />Now darkened and scarred, dirty and desperate <br />It still follows you <br />300 bosses and none of them use their real name. <br />They don't care about you, only the show. <br />You take it on the chin and get told your finished <br />Your light in the pocket and about to snap <br />Solitude in liquid then solitude in smoke <br />Your with the love of your life <br />And still have the aches and pains for a good old slut. <br />The days of James Dean are over, they ran away. <br /> I just wan't my self back.<br /><br />matt fromm<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/is-it-really-gone/
