There is the beat,
Heavy, demanding and addictive.
Your heartbeat goes faster and faster,
Like the drums that play behind you.

The electricity runs like fire.
Up the wires to the God,
Which lies in the hands of your friend.
The screeching, whining wash over you.

It feeds into the ugly black boxes,
Necessary but hardly attractive.
They ruin this beautiful picture,
Mar the perfect stage.

The wires run madly everywhere,
Like insane snakes of wonder.
You hold in your hand the mighty tool,
Which shares the splendor on stage with all present.

The cheering drives you on,
The music behind pushing you up high.
Raising you up and up,
On a fierce rush of blood.

Your long hair clings to your face,
Sticking to the sweat which drips.
The terrible spotlights burn,
Their heat almost unbearable.

But it does not matter, no longer matters,
For you're there in that moment when all is brilliant.
Your voice, the instruments, the crowd,
All have merged in total perfection.

It's that one moment that I truly am,
Where the sweat disappears and the crowds fade,
And nothing exists but the adrenaline,
Rushing through my veins.