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"elicits" poems
From the BBC today, Excerpt Why does Taylor Swift write so many one-note melodies? "It's easy to get distracted by her celebrity, but Taylor Swift is a once-in-a-generation songwriter. From the very beginning, she's displayed a knack for melody and storytelling that most artists never master. Take, for example, her first US number one, OUR SONG Written for a high school talent show, it's a fairly typical tale of teenage romance until the final lines: "I grabbed a pen / And an old napkin / And I wrote down our song." That's smart, self-assured songwriting for someone who wasn't old enough to vote. Notably, the lyrics insert the musician directly into the narrative - something she developed into a tried and tested trope. But Our Song also establishes another of Taylor's trademarks: The one-note melody. Excerpt Repetitive melodies that centre around a single note are part of that appeal. They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech. "They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech." "They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech." "They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech." Rebuttal Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics. They can relate to your song but if they cannot sing it themselves putting themselves in the 'first-person perspective narrative' they cannot feel as-if they have BECOME the artist and are living that moment as they remember it. Taylor Swift sings about teenage love and angst something EVERYONE ON EARTH understands. ALL POETRY BEGAN AS RHYME IN SONG. Cadences are singing statements that confer a discipline and unity. Song acts as a catharsis. The artist shares their pain in a way that is universally understood. If you want to sell a rock, literally a pebble, you will not sell it if it doesn't look like a rock. If it doesn't do what rocks do. If it is not what people remember a rock to be like. Nor will it sell if it is just like every other rock they have ever seen. It cannot convey an emotion unless it elicits emotion. One cannot even begin to feel emotional if one cannot remember easily the past and that includes lyrics one has heard that evoked said emotional state. It is horrifying to see HOW BADLY EVERYONE INSISTS that rhyme be obliterated in exchange for an intellectual or individual perspective NOT SHARED BY THE MAJORITY OF PEOPLE. If you want to sell and make money you better start thinking about the 99% of people who are not geniuses. If your sole goal in life is to attract a genius to give you a great job because of how, "smart," they perceive you to be then fine. You are not an artist. You are an employee. "Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics." "Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics." "Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics." Thrice Times Great. ⁻ᴴᵉʳᵐᵉˢ                                            BECOME                               EVERYONE ON EARTH                ALL POETRY BEGAN AS RHYME IN SONG                       HOW BADLY EVERYONE INSISTS             NOT SHARED BY THE MAJORITY OF PEOPLE                                          HOW BAD                                       artist? or employee?
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Feb 15, 2018
Feb 15, 2018 at 10:29 AM UTC
Article: Taylor Swift and why rhyme sells,
From the BBC today, Excerpt Why does Taylor Swift write so many one-note melodies? "It's easy to get distracted by her celebrity, but Taylor Swift is a once-in-a-generation songwriter. From the very beginning, she's displayed a knack for melody and storytelling that most artists never master. Take, for example, her first US number one, OUR SONG Written for a high school talent show, it's a fairly typical tale of teenage romance until the final lines: "I grabbed a pen / And an old napkin / And I wrote down our song." That's smart, self-assured songwriting for someone who wasn't old enough to vote. Notably, the lyrics insert the musician directly into the narrative - something she developed into a tried and tested trope. But Our Song also establishes another of Taylor's trademarks: The one-note melody. Excerpt Repetitive melodies that centre around a single note are part of that appeal. They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech. "They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech." "They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech." "They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech." Rebuttal Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics. They can relate to your song but if they cannot sing it themselves putting themselves in the 'first-person perspective narrative' they cannot feel as-if they have BECOME the artist and are living that moment as they remember it. Taylor Swift sings about teenage love and angst something EVERYONE ON EARTH understands. ALL POETRY BEGAN AS RHYME IN SONG. Cadences are singing statements that confer a discipline and unity. Song acts as a catharsis. The artist shares their pain in a way that is universally understood. If you want to sell a rock, literally a pebble, you will not sell it if it doesn't look like a rock. If it doesn't do what rocks do. If it is not what people remember a rock to be like. Nor will it sell if it is just like every other rock they have ever seen. It cannot convey an emotion unless it elicits emotion. One cannot even begin to feel emotional if one cannot remember easily the past and that includes lyrics one has heard that evoked said emotional state. It is horrifying to see HOW BADLY EVERYONE INSISTS that rhyme be obliterated in exchange for an intellectual or individual perspective NOT SHARED BY THE MAJORITY OF PEOPLE. If you want to sell and make money you better start thinking about the 99% of people who are not geniuses. If your sole goal in life is to attract a genius to give you a great job because of how, "smart," they perceive you to be then fine. You are not an artist. You are an employee. "Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics." "Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics." "Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics." Thrice Times Great. ⁻ᴴᵉʳᵐᵉˢ                                            BECOME                               EVERYONE ON EARTH                ALL POETRY BEGAN AS RHYME IN SONG                       HOW BADLY EVERYONE INSISTS             NOT SHARED BY THE MAJORITY OF PEOPLE                                          HOW BAD                                       artist? or employee?
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36
The most obnoxious part about being a communications major, is having to tell people you're  a communications major, it's having to explain to concerned strangers what I plan to do with that- The major question is the new, What's your sign? The future physicist asks with crooked smile, plastic cup in hand, and *** in his eyes. My answer elicits a sigh, a smirk, and what do you plan to do with that? He asks the way one asks a child ******* on their parents car keys. So I tell him: *I plan to hang my degree in my guest bathroom-* Why? *Because I don't give a **** about what other people think of it.*
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Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 4:47 PM UTC
Soft Science (The Pliet of a Communications Major)
in an omnipresent haze of cerulean blue and vivacious velvet petals where irises swim in lovely chaos as I mutter several choice expletives under my breath. He burrows himself deeper under my skin stealing the breath from my lungs rousing my beleaguered soul awakening a feral need. I relish this murky maze of desire he elicits from me and hungrily await his return
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Aug 19, 2021
Aug 19, 2021 at 7:37 PM UTC
I bask.....
A writers best work Is not that which elicits emotions from others But that which Elicits emotions from themselves
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Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 1:13 PM UTC
A Writers Achievement
The world belongs to the nocturnal, the ever present reflexive vanguard whose presence elicits attention, be it negative or positive. The crawl to a standstill, the distractions, the regrets: These are as naught to those whose focus supplants physical duress. Success is the only road, the path to failure can only be trod by idle feet, hot coals to the promised kingdom of recognition and praise, this must be traversed at all lengths, at all levels, by all means: Take it. Hatred or envy does not compare to the rush of achievement, real effort brought to fruition. Be not afraid to raise your expectations, be afraid that they never rise. Most of all, love unashamedly and furiously as if no one could weigh in, the universe bends to the warrior's perspective
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Aug 25, 2012
Aug 25, 2012 at 6:07 AM UTC
Nocturnal Admissions
And I hope she’ll be a fool, that’s the best thing a girl can be, is a beautiful little fool. To see no fault and see no cause, a demeanor that elicits the ceasing of qualms She will drink mint tea while sitting with glee on top of a cloud above a raging storm Her focus is precise and what she sees will be calm I wish for my daughter to be one She will live in a bubble, plated with the toughest material and doubled, and coated with rose-colored glass. It will be her veil, disguising injustices too well, but her aura will always be electric Her tears will be daisies growing amongst the lilies near a pond where there’s coy and fairies casting spells. She will sleep and dream neutral, as the sandman began his sutures, to maintain her outlook that life is swell. I wish for my daughter to be one With her sway and her gallop and her nod and her twirl, she will please the sensibilities of the world. I pray to the heavens, her angels and gods, that there will not be a crack in her armor. For if she is to see how the world truly be, then her face will forever be furled She is my joy and my love, a pearl necklace with a hug, a jewel that can never be matched And I hope she’ll be a fool, that’s the best thing a girl can be. Is a Beautiful Little Fool
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Jul 23, 2016
Jul 23, 2016 at 11:18 PM UTC
Beautiful Little Fool
Simplicity Elicits Srendipity
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Mar 31, 2010
Mar 31, 2010 at 1:04 AM UTC
Simplicity
*En route to your heart, I strayed in to, the lush garden of your youth, full of unsullied flowers, kissed only by mischievous sun. No man can even, think of turning his back to this veritable feast for senses; it transmitted a vibe resonating, perfectly with my psyche. The heady fragrance emanating from varieties of flowers did speak of magical pleasures unexplored I did eagerly heed, was it by pure chance or were there  plans to allure me in, I don't even want to know, it suits well to my desires. Amorous droning of inebriated bees rang in my ears, making me giddy. Spring time it was in your budding new garden, being a pretender who  elicits the best effect you smartly feigned ignorance of my presence, (As you expected, I suppose) I lost my way and ended up in the spirited night we shared between us, harvesting wild fruits with a verve we had never known before, pleasures of many seasons were there in store, I was astonished, a consummate seductress you were. a she wolf, under a sheep's skin. but kind amorita, most adroit. Could I ever blame you an iridescent creature, exquisite oh! the candor that marks your surrender! Scent of flowers wafting on the wind, created the effect of rarefied air my lungs are full to the brim with your feminine spices. Does this happy transgression to your secret scented garden make me a fallen angel, or am I a  slave of your whims entrapped for the rest of our lives? Either way your wile wins a knight in shining armor or bereft of it, and naked, for your sake I willingly submit before the light that shines in you, I'd make your garden mine.*
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Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 6:44 AM UTC
Thy wile prevails
*En route to your heart, I strayed in to, the lush garden of your youth, full of unsullied flowers, kissed only by mischievous sun. No man can even, think of turning his back to this veritable feast for senses; it transmitted a vibe resonating, perfectly with my psyche. The heady fragrance emanating from varieties of flowers did speak of magical pleasures unexplored I did eagerly heed, was it by pure chance or were there  plans to allure me in, I don't even want to know, it suits well to my desires. Amorous droning of inebriated bees rang in my ears, making me giddy. Spring time it was in your budding new garden, being a pretender who  elicits the best effect you smartly feigned ignorance of my presence, (As you expected, I suppose) I lost my way and ended up in the spirited night we shared between us, harvesting wild fruits with a verve we had never known before, pleasures of many seasons were there in store, I was astonished, a consummate seductress you were. a she wolf, under a sheep's skin. but kind amorita, most adroit. Could I ever blame you an iridescent creature, exquisite oh! the candor that marks your surrender! Scent of flowers wafting on the wind, created the effect of rarefied air my lungs are full to the brim with your feminine spices. Does this happy transgression to your secret scented garden make me a fallen angel, or am I a  slave of your whims entrapped for the rest of our lives? Either way your wile wins a knight in shining armor or bereft of it, and naked, for your sake I willingly submit before the light that shines in you, I'd make your garden mine.*
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55
in your vicinity, i'm filled with corny questions like: "what do you think of fate?" if it is destined that we meet, predetermined that we end up as more than strangers, more than friends, then technically, it doesn't matter what i say or prevent myself from saying, these moments are orchestrated by something greater, if such a question elicits a groan, then its the groan with which we'll start.
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Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 11:08 PM UTC
fate
Creeping vines climb crisscrossing the cracked clay Crumbled brick shards collect at the base of the tower Essential oils permeate the air Invisible liquid fire Inflaming all feeling skin bubbling and peeling Grotesque **** oozes from ragged ripped flesh Itching is incessant Swollen red eyelids Tear drop elicits twitching A scream of unfulfilled urges Vines encircle the neck countless green nooses contaminate flesh Breath becomes brutality swollen esophagus Red and green monster stalks searching for someone with skin thin enough to climb underneath into the innermost layer Death brings an end to the maddening agony Body a bulging red ball already collects maggots Creepy vines questing never ending searching not satisfied until they find the next target Cycle continues no escape from the ivy.
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Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 5:56 PM UTC
Poison Ivy
A late night phone call awakes the teen. The voice calling elicits sweeter dreams. She's asking for a late night rendezvous. She says she misses his eyes of blue. The boy stealthily sneaks down the hall. There was no way he would ignore the call. He opens the door and feels the autumn chill.   And he smiles thinking of the upcoming thrill. He jumps on his bike to begin the journey. Even the long ride can't ease his yearning. As he pulls into the alley at the back of her place. He sees a beautiful and innocent face. They make some small talk to break the ice. But her sweet perfume smells way too nice. So he leans in closer to steal a passionate kiss. And she accepts him and grants his wish. Their breathing was heavy and hands explored. There was a certain need that couldn't be ignored.   But before the heat could engulf the night. There was the sound of a door and suddenly a light. He made for his bike like a lightning bolt. And he peddled away like a run away colt.   The last thing he heard was angry father's yell. If I ever see you again I'll send you straight to hell.
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Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 1:49 AM UTC
15
having beguiled my Scorpio the full moons know what moistens the body elicits stark truth of feeling in vehement velocity racing ahead of thought and the two argue not every word is lovely nor should be spoken reactions are often   vicious junk yard dogs protecting piles of ******* only valuable to hoarders
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Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 5:41 PM UTC
scorpion stings can cause inconsolable crying
As I lay here restive. I cannot help but conjecture what could come to pass. Thy dimpled simper, impales my soul and elicits bliss in my ***** Oh! The butterflies, how they flutter inside me, yearning their sweet, rightful release. Ah, it cannot be, has this young mistress vexed this dispassionate beast? Do I dare brave ask if I am worthy of such a divine, angelic monarch? I ask thee, do I dare reflect on my chaotic life; do I dare torture myself, knowing I will falter. Alas, I must! I must attempt to become the merit. I must become her love, her heart, her soul, her reason to be...her King. For she is...My Queen.
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Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 3:40 PM UTC
My Queen
No longer is an article a joy Each bit elicits crisis Each piece closer to the end I now understand But disrespect Those in the dark They do not know yet
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Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 11:46 AM UTC
Research
The desert gradually turned to a grassy thicket tamarack branches turn towards the fleeting dusk above, ancient starlights fade in cimmerian skies their ghostly glow choked by the sullen silhouettes of churning charcoal clouds against the abyss. The world feels as though she is being devoured by nothing and emptiness. Again the tortured-self awakes inside of Apricus wrestling with its bindings merely out of gall. It elicits ache in the belly of its captor, the kind that only heartbreak makes inside us all and once the tantrum cease, it laugh a little before it speak *The darkness comes, not for you and I alone but in the end all life is its sacrifice, why struggle any longer to change the minds of sheep? Has the battle not hardened our flesh, sharpened our teeth, has it not made us hungry for what lesser men eat?* A thunderhead above him began to coil tightening its hold around the moon, each rotation siphoned the lunar light till the well traveled soil of the trail turn to a thin brush, then into a heavy wood. Ask not if you shall stray from your path rather ask if you will have the constitution to find your way back in the black of a stormy night.
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Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 11:32 PM UTC
Stray From The Path
A physically saturated pluviophile is a soul that craves to intertwine themselves with the very deepest parts of thee. In the eyes and heart of a pluviophile, the rain is sunshine on an otherwise grey and cloudy day. Make no mistake; I am a pure breed when it comes to being/representing a "pluviophile". The rain elicits the very deepest part of me without one moment's struggle. It's a cleansing. It's an act of purification. It's a new beginning.      A feeling of     new skin and afflictions   washed away. A few still moments   to breathe in     the roses of life.   If you can not =connect= with a   "pluviophile"? You're not    'all wet' but rather,   as dry as the saharan sand. Come get    wet       with me...         in   the      p        u          r            p              l                e    rain """""""""""               '''''"""""""     """"""""""""""" """"""""""""""""""""" ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' '
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Nov 2, 2019
Nov 2, 2019 at 8:14 AM UTC
What is a 'pluviophile' - here, let me explain
I've always talked to myself, but these days I feel stereotypically crazy the "I should be locked up for my own good" kind of crazy. I don't know how long I spent in my room laughing until there were tears in my eyes. Twice I made a move to leave the room, twice I collapsed laughing. I wondered if I was actually crying, But no, it was laughter. Laughter, because my god, it's all so **** funny. I counted my Klonopin today. She told me to ration them. I took four on one day three on another, if I skip a day or two, I'll be able to take four on a different day. It makes sense in my head. Without the Klonopin, I'm angry again. She asks if I'm thinking about eating today, "not really idc" An "I care" response only elicits "Sorry about that," too much of a coward to say "That's not my problem" or better yet, **** you, leave me alone, go tend to your partner, or datemate, or whatever the **** you call them."* Maybe I don't really mean it, but there's only **** You"* in my heart today. I won't take the Klonopin today so I can drink wine or a beer or whatever is cheap. It makes sense in my head, as I continue to cackle to myself. *Who the **** do you think you are, Kerouac?* It's all a joke to me. I walk and walk and walk and I buy a too sweet coffee, instead of ***** which I tell myself I'll buy later. I can behave, if I'm in public, only emitting a tiny chuckle from time to time. Everyone here is absorbed in their lives. No one will know the difference. It's all a joke to me.
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Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 3:21 PM UTC
Stereotypically Crazy
I've always talked to myself, but these days I feel stereotypically crazy the "I should be locked up for my own good" kind of crazy. I don't know how long I spent in my room laughing until there were tears in my eyes. Twice I made a move to leave the room, twice I collapsed laughing. I wondered if I was actually crying, But no, it was laughter. Laughter, because my god, it's all so **** funny. I counted my Klonopin today. She told me to ration them. I took four on one day three on another, if I skip a day or two, I'll be able to take four on a different day. It makes sense in my head. Without the Klonopin, I'm angry again. She asks if I'm thinking about eating today, "not really idc" An "I care" response only elicits "Sorry about that," too much of a coward to say "That's not my problem" or better yet, **** you, leave me alone, go tend to your partner, or datemate, or whatever the **** you call them."* Maybe I don't really mean it, but there's only **** You"* in my heart today. I won't take the Klonopin today so I can drink wine or a beer or whatever is cheap. It makes sense in my head, as I continue to cackle to myself. *Who the **** do you think you are, Kerouac?* It's all a joke to me. I walk and walk and walk and I buy a too sweet coffee, instead of ***** which I tell myself I'll buy later. I can behave, if I'm in public, only emitting a tiny chuckle from time to time. Everyone here is absorbed in their lives. No one will know the difference. It's all a joke to me.
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68
I sculpt you in the papers of my sketchbook Every stroke of your outline is defined so well To express the only way I know how An outlet for my hidden feelings But seeing your face in view again Always elicits another daydream It is never enough You don't know that I draw you In your most candid moments Just to capture that memory again You're the most beautiful when you don't try By now I know the beauty in your every flaw From growing up by your side As close as we are, I want to be closer Every canvas I see Is another home to paint a memory Your lips like fire, your eyes like the sea They resemble the chaos of the waves Showing your wild nature They reel me in I drown in them endlessly
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Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 2:01 AM UTC
My Muse
The open casket sang -- what force an oak elicits encasing a body
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Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 2:51 PM UTC
Open Casket
Some days my lips feel cold and my ears Hear none of what I say Only a faint buzz of wings rustling in the wind. Some days my fingertips feel blue, Even though the blood is warm and My knees chatter in the brisk wind Even inside my head. Some days I face the flames of the spiteful dragon in my soul and His fire doesn't singe me, A frozen statue. I am a spirit, a single tarnished coin in the dragon's hoard, A point of light drifting In a body too big; I rattle around in my skull, My skull that is too hard I bruise and scrape. Little red and purple-black marks, definitely injured But a pale finger pressed to them elicits No response. Nothing. I am devoid of feeling, my heart beating but No pulse, No life. The dragon stands outside his den but Makes no move to attack. My bones are stuck in flesh Too heavy, waxy and cold I want to fly! My joints stretch through in hard angles, Translucent skin showing blue veins; River-tracks of spent blood, Cold blood, Carried back to a fluttering heart. Chilled. Cold-blooded, a giant lizard seeking it's warmth from other sources. A shudder twitches between ribs, lungs Too tight, gasping beneath the Skeletal, crooked spine running like dragon's spikes Down past my hips, Bumps that will maybe become wings Some day, Wings that will lift me up Some day, Lifting that will become floating Some day, And then broken branches will drop from Cold trees Fire boiling in my gut, Waxy skin melting from trapped bones, A skull too hard, Flesh too heavy, Lungs too tight, Crunch, break, destroy And my little soul of light will Float away and be Free! If only I had a dragon's courage.
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Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 12:28 PM UTC
Cold
Some days my lips feel cold and my ears Hear none of what I say Only a faint buzz of wings rustling in the wind. Some days my fingertips feel blue, Even though the blood is warm and My knees chatter in the brisk wind Even inside my head. Some days I face the flames of the spiteful dragon in my soul and His fire doesn't singe me, A frozen statue. I am a spirit, a single tarnished coin in the dragon's hoard, A point of light drifting In a body too big; I rattle around in my skull, My skull that is too hard I bruise and scrape. Little red and purple-black marks, definitely injured But a pale finger pressed to them elicits No response. Nothing. I am devoid of feeling, my heart beating but No pulse, No life. The dragon stands outside his den but Makes no move to attack. My bones are stuck in flesh Too heavy, waxy and cold I want to fly! My joints stretch through in hard angles, Translucent skin showing blue veins; River-tracks of spent blood, Cold blood, Carried back to a fluttering heart. Chilled. Cold-blooded, a giant lizard seeking it's warmth from other sources. A shudder twitches between ribs, lungs Too tight, gasping beneath the Skeletal, crooked spine running like dragon's spikes Down past my hips, Bumps that will maybe become wings Some day, Wings that will lift me up Some day, Lifting that will become floating Some day, And then broken branches will drop from Cold trees Fire boiling in my gut, Waxy skin melting from trapped bones, A skull too hard, Flesh too heavy, Lungs too tight, Crunch, break, destroy And my little soul of light will Float away and be Free! If only I had a dragon's courage.
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56
Separate the hand from the rocks For too long, and up it comes The charge of static The small bolt of lightning that shocks And elicits an automatic cry. Its erratic intensity: a measure Of distance and time that's come between, Far apart - isolated from contact. It will ground you, take you back To zero And bring you down to earth. On your own - no change marked Imperceptible charge grows, Ions negative and unbidden, Your remove from society deepens; Your relation and bond to others weakens, Until contact becomes a danger TO ALL PARTIES. No - from time to time touch base, Family, funny friend, ground, You must earth the Soul.
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Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 2:30 PM UTC
Earthing the Soul
My playlist on Youtube writes itself into a poem It elicits Love, Lust, Loss anger along with a few other emotions Ratatat takes me on a tour of Rome PHOX shows me how to dance in Slow Motion John Denver joins me on the tour of Country Roads Highlight Tribe encourages me to Free Tibet Bioshock Infinite do I dream of with Schyman Elizabeth Kavinsky with his beats, urging me to Outrun Lose Sight now and again with Andrew Bayer and Ane Burn Abandoned Pools take me down the memory lane in Clone High Foo Fighters whisper in my ear that I too can Learn To Fly COCAINEJESUS, Akira, beats and samples; I have PINEAPPLEKISSES Cloud Nothing reminds me that I should Stay Useless Discover A Little Opus as I take a ride on Little Comets Sky Rabbit opine and observe the present In Our Times Joey Badass shares with me his funky ideals of *World ********** Coheed and Cambria describe brotherhood in Key Entity Extraction Geroge Ezra sings an ode to fathers in Listen to the Man Perfect shows me the other side of the coin with Simple Plan The Peppers tell a story of starting over covered in Snow Shakey Graves says takes a chance and Roll the Bones John Wayne Gacy Jr. the serial killer is immortalised by Sufjan Stevens Imagine Dragons, the subconscious and fears come alive in Demons Owl City tells a fantastic fable about insomnia in Fireflies Ellie Goulding finds sweet slumber even in dark times in Lights
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Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 8:24 AM UTC
Youtube
A cloudless sky elicits No Meter. A thoughtless mind elicits- No Rhyme. A closed mouth, contains No Words. No Context, No Syntax, No Rules, No Name. Emptiness is a title better left unuttered. And titles, like rooms waiting for guests, or minds racing with thoughts, are best uncluttered.
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May 2, 2010
May 2, 2010 at 3:10 AM UTC
Nothingness
When I’m alone you grasp my hand And set the tone Darkened music, reflective thoughts, You turn me away from anything else around me The moods right for this melancholy tango And you whirl me around for a while Your sadistic steps lead my masochistic thoughts Onward through this familiar downward spiral I know it’s every twist and turn It’s every pitfall, dip, back step All the questions it elicits I wonder what’ll happen when it’s over What will follow? What did I miss? What more will be evoked? Is this one more reminder? And I don’t even need to bother wondering anymore I know when you’ll be back As soon as one day’s sun sets and I close my eyes Again that song starts Reminds me, prompts me Then again I surrender To the arms of loneliness
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May 23, 2010
May 23, 2010 at 4:37 PM UTC
The Tango
*Intimate in sleep elicits sweet response from that birthright place of undefended Here I Am ! No need of  armor shell that's worn by serious day pretending to disdain your softness...   proof of worthy man*
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Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 2:14 AM UTC
undefended Here I Am