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-elixir- Jun 2020
The night is young
and I am stung
with the unsung
melodies from my lungs.

Drifting is the moon
like a silver spoon.
She begins to swoon
to my icy tune.
night constantly inspires me to write.
Cailey Weaver Jun 2020
Every day can't be a winner.
Sometimes the ice gets thinner,
and cracks beneath your feet before you can flee.

Sometimes life just gets harder,
so just run a little bit farther.
The road will end somewhere, I guarantee.
Part of a song I'm writing called "The Road"
angelique Jun 2020
days keep slipping through your fingers
light spirals out of the dark sky like glass
love dissolves into something
intangible
and sullen
and cold

you visit the city where nobody lives
you go to the sleep where nobody dreams
you hear the song that nobody sings
you make up things which pull things apart

you hear distant words, but they sound so foreign
their meanings tumble all over the place
whispers are abrasive
and noise drowns sound

maybe this is all a little glitch in continuity
light stretched thin
but your words linger on
enjoined in shadow
burn in song
little musing. from a ruinous dream.
youre the missing lyrics
to the song that plays within my soul
i love you
coffeegirl Jun 2020
stay here
(on the Sofa)
  feel the Beat
   (and never go)

be my boy
(everlasting)
  at the end
  (talk around)
    secrets of love
Context: This is a poem i wrote for a lofi album I'm working on. Each line is a song title and the album name will be Sofa Beats (like beats to listen to while doing nothing) Let me know what you think!
Michael R Burch May 2020
Song from Ælla: Under the Willow Tree, or, Minstrel's Song
by Thomas Chatterton, age 17 or younger
Modernization/Translation by Michael R. Burch

MYNSTRELLES SONGE ("MINSTREL'S SONG")

O! sing unto my roundelay,
O! drop the briny tear with me,
Dance no more at holy-day,
Like a running river be:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.

Black his crown as the winter night,
White his flesh as the summer snow
Red his face as the morning light,
Cold he lies in the grave below:
My love is dead,  
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
      
Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note,
Quick in dance as thought can be,                      
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;
O! he lies by the willow-tree!
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.

Hark! the raven ***** his wing
In the briar'd dell below;
Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing
To the nightmares, as they go:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.

See! the white moon shines on high;
Whiter is my true-love's shroud:
Whiter than the morning sky,
Whiter than the evening cloud:
My love is dead,  
Gone to his death-bed          
All under the willow-tree.

Here upon my true-love's grave      
Shall the barren flowers be laid;
Not one holy saint to save
All the coldness of a maid:
My love is dead,  
Gone to his death-bed          
All under the willow-tree.

With my hands I'll frame the briars
Round his holy corpse to grow:
Elf and fairy, light your fires,
Here my body, stilled, shall go:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed          
All under the willow-tree.

Come, with acorn-cup and thorn,
Drain my heart's red blood away;
Life and all its good I scorn,
Dance by night, or feast by day:
My love is dead,  
Gone to his death-bed          
All under the willow-tree.
          
Water witches, crowned with plaits,
Bear me to your lethal tide.
I die; I come; my true love waits.
Thus the damsel spoke, and died.

The song above is, in my opinion, competitive with Shakespeare's songs in his plays, and may be the best of Thomas Chatterton's Rowley poems. It seems rather obvious that this song was written in modern English, then "backdated." One wonders whether Chatterton wrote it in response to Shakespeare's "Under the Greenwood Tree." The greenwood tree or evergreen is a symbol of immortality. The "weeping willow" is a symbol of sorrow, and the greatest human sorrow is that of mortality and the separations caused by death. If Chatterton wrote his song as a refutation of Shakespeare's, I think he did a **** good job. But it's a splendid song in its own right.

William Blake is often considered to be the first English Romantic. Blake is the elder of the so-called “big six” of Blake, William Wordsworth, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Lord Byron, Percy Bysshe Shelley and John Keats. I would add the great Scottish poet Robert Burns, making it a big seven. However, I believe Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelley and Keats actually nominated an earlier poet as the first of their tribe: Thomas Chatterton. Unfortunately, Chatterton committed suicide in his teens, after being accused of literary fraud. What he did as a boy was astounding.

On this page, I prove that Thomas Chatterton could not possibly be guilty of the crime he was accused of:
(http://www.thehypertexts.com/Thomas%20Chatterton%20Modern%20English%20Translations%20Moderniza­tions%20Burch.htm)

Keywords/Tags: Chatterton, Romantic, Rowley, fraud, forger, forgery, roundelay, minstrel, song, Aella, willow
How
How could you do this?
How could you do this?
Now I don't mean to come off like I'm obsessing about you
But I obsessively obsess about the things I've done
Remember back when I said I'm sorry?
Told you I felt like a drain
Told you I felt like I cause pain
Well now I'm back again
Let me apologize for apologizing
I don't really think before I say stuff
You probably gonna look at this like "this *****"
But that's okay I don't really need your opinions, I'm growing up
But I need to know
What I do wrong?
Hey, hey, hey!
What I do wrong?
Ye I know I apologise alot
But that's just my thoughts
I know I can be kinda obsessive and possessive
I know I can be kinda emotional
I know loving me can be a struggle
I swear I'm getting better though
Got a therapist and I'm getting back on my meds
Maybe they can fix my head
Maybe they can get rid of the dread
Maybe they can explain why I want to be dead
This isn't a pity party
I'm just telling you what's going on inside of my head
Hey, hey, hey!
What I do wrong?
Remember back when you said you loved me
Said you weren't ready for a relationship
But you could own me
That made me feel kinda funny
Like I was just a little play toy
Like I was nothing more to you than a quick fix
I see you got a new sub
I still hope they'll be better than me
I still wish nothing but the best
But I gotta know
What I do wrong?
Hey, hey, hey!
What I do wrong?
Sometimes I wish you'd leave me alone
But then you message me and I just can't let go
See you feeling kinda depresso
Hit you up like "hey, what's wrong, can I help you?"
I guess that's just my deepest fear
That I can't save you
I think it comes from some previous life trauma
Think I'm afraid to loose
Cause I lost my mama
Not to death but to my self hatred
Hit her up like
Hey, hey, hey!
What I do wrong?
I think this would make a better song, but hey what do I know
GAURAV JHA May 2020
Went on journey to find true song,
Hearing him felt pleasure, relaxed as monk,
may not touch mind, but should touch soul,
should play his aim or say his role.

Started my journey from city or town,
where only heard noise of people and
of car’s horn.
All the people here like robots,
talking each other in robotic manner,
thought of true song in town
like death of men and no
people mourn.


Went deep in town from small to small
and to large house,
even in the holes of ground where
only found mouse.
At last
“I came on conclusion here is not
  present the true song”.

Then went in a hall
Filled with creaures,waiting for song,
exited to hear for which waiting so long.
I think here I achieved my aim soon
then all lights are off!
sign as entry of singer,
enters with a weaving of arm,
puts his hand on mike,
and grab it with his finger.
I watch him in hunger
and eagerly hear his song.
It is good but does not
affect my curious heart
lack some trueness, lack some soul.
At last
“I came on conclusion here is not
    present my true song”.
Then I went in forest deep and long,
through trees and shrubs,
through nature’s belong,
along the river, narrow the creeper,
in search of song.
Here the birds,and the animals,
Even the insects,who can song.
It as good,pure as raw,
but still lacks love and affection
Oh! I fail again
This time again I was wrong.
Tired and exhausted sit near tree
then suddenly heard mother’s soft gentle song
to son to make him sleep
make me burden free and fresh as mint.

It was beautiful, but not like real song,
not so musical as the hall’s singer song,
it even touch my soul,
and vibrate inside me so long.
Anything you say with pure heart
become a song
pure love in it make
it a true song.

Now I understand what a true song,
for which I was waiting so long.

This is my journey’s end
With fulfillment of my quest
Now I go to sleep
by feeling my mother’s lullby’s dream.
writer views on what is true song
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