Midnight hums in my dim-lit room,
My pen dances, but the chords won’t swoon.
Empty coffee cups, crossed-out lines,
A voice too soft for the spotlight’s shrine.
“Play it louder,” they say with a grin,
But my heart’s a storm buried deep within.
I wear these dreams like a second skin,
But the mirror whispers, “Where do you begin?”
Every “no” is a scratch on my guitar,
Still, I’m tuning hope to a shooting star.
Check back with me on that—
When these melodies crawl out the shadows,
And the words I bleed finally catch.
I’m more than pen with a notebook heart,
But tonight, the doubt’s a work of art.
Yeah, check back with me on that.
Yeah, (Yeah Yeah Yeah) check back with me on that.
I’m a symphony half-built, still in combat,
But darling, just… check back with me on that.]
I’ve played bars where the crowds don’t stay,
Sang my truth while the jukebox played.
Label suits said, “Come on, rewrite the track,”
But my soul’s a fire that won’t cut back
I write anthems for ghosts of my past,
Every chorus a bridge I’m hell-bent to pass.
I grind through the night with a pen in my hand,
Writing out futures that don’t always land.
Every chorus I craft is a prayer in disguise,
But the only reply is the silence that sighs.
It’s a gift, it’s a curse, it’s the fire I chase,
Every “no” leaves a scar I can’t erase.
I bleed on the page, but the crowd walks away,
Still I’m singing my truth in the break of the day.
Echoes in the room, bouncing back at me,
No applause, just the sound of my own melody.
But I keep on pushing, I keep on strong,
‘Cause the echo’s still proof that the song belongs.
Respect in my flow, no shade, no fight,
I honor the love when I write at night.
If I want you to feel it, I’ll say it clear,
No wishful thinking, I’ll keep you near.
This is soul in the struggle, rhythm in the pain,
Every setback’s fuel for the notes I sustain.
I’m a soldier of sound, with a heart that won’t quit,
Even echoes remind me I’m built for this shit.
So check back with me when the crowd’s in sync,
When the echoes turn louder than the doubts I think.
I’m a gift and a curse, but I’ll never fall flat,
I’m a storm in the booth — check back.. we me..  on that.
My hands shake, but the mic won’t tell,
And the road’s a lonelier place to dwell.
I’m a hurricane in a whispered sigh,
Mapping constellations — who gives a shit why.
Check back with me on that—
When these melodies crawl out the shadows,
And the words I bleed finally catch.
I’m more than a pen with a notebook heart,
But tonight, the doubt’s a work of art.
Yeah, check back with me on that.
Yeah, (Yeah Yeah Yeah) check back with me on that.
I’m a symphony half-built, still in combat,
But darling, just… check back with me on that.
One day, I’ll crack the radio’s code,
Turn “too delicate” into a crescendo bold.
For now, I’m the echo before the roar,
A phoenix in verses, rising through the floor.
Check back when the world sings along,
My name in the rhythm, my pain in the song.
Check back when the doubts finally fade—
I’ll be the wildfire the shadows made.
I’m a symphony half-built, still in combat,
But darling, just… check back with me on that.
Yeah, check back with me on that.
Yeah, (Yeah Yeah Yeah) check back with me on that.
Yeah, (Yeah ....Yeah ......Yeah)............ check..... back..... with me...... on that..........

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In the shadows of Apache Junction, at the foot of the majestic Superstition Mountains, sits a weathered hacienda. This desert oasis is home to an enigmatic figure, a songwriter whose journey reads like a long, dusty road of honky-tonk bars and college cafeterias. He wasn't chasing fame or glitter; instead, he chose the soul-crushing beauty of music for music's sake.

Years spent hunched over sticky barroom tables and scribbling lyrics on napkins earned him a reputation—not in the spotlight but in the back rooms where deals are made. He wrote melodies that found their way into the hearts of stars who had lost their own muse. He sold his creations for cash, with no recognition, but the whisper of his songs carried the weight of his soul.

Finally, he bought this piece of desert paradise—a stable income from his timeless songs allowed him to live comfortably, if anonymously. Here in this hacienda, with his family beside him and the mountains as his backdrop, he found the peace to write hits under his own name. He chuckled at the irony that now, without chasing fame, he could create music that brought him joy.

In the end, it was never about the spotlight. It was about the journey, the stories, and the songs that wrote themselves through his life. As the sun set behind the Superstitions, casting long shadows over the hacienda, he strummed his guitar and sang—content, unknown, and unburdened by the world's gaze.


Copyright 2019 Edwin H. Balder

I may be dead when fame comes but my real glory was always JULIE & The Kids. Thank you for such love

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Edwin Balder