In Love With A Busker

This poem is about a guy who fell in love with a busker (a person who entertains people for money in public places such as by singing or dancing).

Born with a silver spoon , And raised with a Bentley,

       I was a boy of hardly twenty.

They called me a spoiled brat, A man with no heart

    Anyways they were right

    I was a bit way-ward.

What was I doing with life, I barely had any clue

      What I did all day was strum the guitar

               For that was all I knew.

Aimless, lifeless I roamed the streets, In search of love

         Until I walked down street number 19

          And got sure there’s someone above.

I stumbled across the lane, Where I saw her

 A girl playing a violin

   Yes, she was a busker.

Philosophers have got the words, Poets could describe her better

            Quite unfortunate on my part

        ‘cause I was neither.

She stood there , With her eyes open yet closed

Playing a soft melody

Into which she was completely devoured.

With people circled around her, And music tearing apart my husk

            I could only hear the metallic sound of coins

   Dropped into her box.

The song ended, The people were gone

I Kept staring at her from the same place

While she packed and left alone.

Suddenly my life, Seemed to have known no heights

All I remember is painting the sky green and trees red 

 that night.

 I kept humming the solo, Dreaming her soft fingers pacing on the violin

     She had weaved the magic

         The kind of which I felt deep deep within.

I went to talk the next day, With a brave heart, for I was a bit shy

    Ended up standing motionless

    After the music I was hit by.

Days rolled by, And I just couldn't talk

  I was in love

    And was still being a complete jerk.

I finally summoned the courage, Mustered up the strength

      I had to talk the next day

         I began counting each breath.

Dressed up in my usual attire, Hormones dripping out from every gland

I left for the street

 With a bright red rose in hand.

 Seeing her standing alone, I felt lucky

 I praised the Lord

And walked down towards her slowly.

What happened next, I never could elude

        I wish I could stop the clocks

  Oh! I wish I could.

Just as I was a few meters apart, Just as the day seemed all whole and hearty

        She got hit by a mad car

       Probably drunk from last night’s party.

People circled around her, But this time for a different reason

  The rose had died 

    And I felt like caged in a prison.

   She is dead, For over 10 years now

    All these days I have lived

 I still wonder how.

 With all my wealth, It might be hard to imagine

But I have moved on

And now a busker at street no.19.