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Tristan Currie Jul 2018
I don't believe in being humble anymore
Righteousness is the key ingredient in ignorance.
And in the hands of the righteous
innocence becomes arrogant misdirection.

To care for people is hard but crucial;
so have compassion,
and have anger.

I feel not, exactly the same
as you feel
nor exactly the opposite,
because a supposed majority don't.

I feel compassion
I feel anger
because, on balance, feelings guide;
They hurt, they're inconvenient
they bleed,
they can even die.

But nurtured and given time to develop,  
given a protective but non-insular infrastructure of thought
a feeling grows to reflect more than what is inside you,  
so you can overcome self-doubt -
and thwart unneccessary suffering the world over
Dead Rose One Apr 2018
3:15am

<•>

unlike a first kiss, a first love,
the premiere awkward first coupling,
which when one recalls it
appears with ever increasing fuzziness (intentionally?)
or not at all, so much so that making it up based on
fleeting hazed glimpses of unmemorized dreams
just to have an “official entry in the cloudy memory,”
is a semi-necessity for regaling...nobody

but you never forget your virginal
projectile vomiting

there is even an emoji for it,
a hurling curling celebration

like a computer reset,
a confessional admission
that includes your own original
original sin,
a purging so complete,
it is a rebirthing of sorts,
a human do over

(c’mon c’mon get on with this, this
no kiss, a most undeserving bizzaring poem title choice)


each and every time I draw forth
the words on the in sides of me
they are ejected with force comparable,
my body rejecting l'étranger,
who’s now escaping

no first kiss, miss, no laughing at one’s first tumbling fumbling,
there is no smiling recollections sweet,
a cover up for your exciting intimation initiations faint revisions

but your first writing!

given up and out in a ejection burst,
a needle in the arm, gunshot
fluids *******, spit out,
without malice aforethought,
and this your last writing

this one, yes, this one.
comes quick, rough and inelegant,
expulsion combustion leaving you
panting on the cold floor you emptied
but
sorta of whole, a clean sheet, so to speak,
swearing you’ll never do this again,
must be an easier way,
to just slow secrete it holy,
or give up the drug of writing
raven forevermore nevermore

nope-u-dope

the vision of a long ago rabbi,
being burned to death slowly
by the Romans, wrapped in
dampened torah scripture scrolls
to lengthen the burnished burning,
a vision burned into a
very youthful boy’s consciousness,
the holy black ink hand drawn letters flowing
from martyr’s mouth, flying heavenward
this fresh within,
a childhood image primal mind,
is ways present
as each letter typed, formulating mathematically,
based on an artificial intelligence theorem,
that updates itself with every missive,
until the new poem is
projectile released in
a single ***** bursting,
purging of the urging

and guess what,

it just happened again

4/27/18

~for Sky, whose poems endearing found me, in her brazen ways,
which is what poets do~
https://hellopoetry.com/sheepskyny/
When Rabbi Hananiah ben Tradyon was caught teaching Torah in public, the Romans decided to make an example of him. Accordingly, Rabbi Hananiah was wrapped in a Torah scroll, which was then set afire. As if this torture were not sufficient, strips of water-soaked wool were placed on his body to prolong his agony. While his distraught students looked on helplessly, Rabbi Hananiah inspired them with his famous utterance, "The parchment is burning but the letters are flying off," meaning that enemies can crush the Jewish body but not the spirit
matilda shaye Aug 2014
my hands melting on the page as my eyes close
begging for unconsciousness
but if I don't get this out now, I never will

to be completely unburdened
by anyone, and that includes me
would be simple and easy
and it would bore you to death

to need someone
why do bodies crave other bodies?
a body is just a body
until you get down to the soul
your purple and blue bruised soul

If I don't get this out now, I never will
because honey really does come from bees
and the night you kissed me for the first time
you mentioned how you were deathly allergic
so honey, do you have time to hear me?

If I knew you wouldn't
one-
get scared and run away
or two-
get bored and ask for your CD's back
I'd give you every last bit
but I have to hold some in,
to make sure you stay

words are hard so you use your hands
and looks,
and the tilt of your chin
and the shaking of your knee
words are hard so I choke out syllable
until you hand me a glass of water
and I simply sing out your name

If I don't get this out now,
I never will
I'll follow the leader,
I'll obey my command
did you expect me to make this easy on you?
oh honey, I'm not that sweet

I'm the venom in your morning Cheerios
I'm the paper cut at your favorite part
I'm the black in the morning sky
honey, I'll only make this harder,
as hard as I possibly can.
Jay Jul 2018
on a flight back home
you trade places with the girl next to me to be seated closer to your friends
mine are so far back that i don't even bother

includes me in your conversation immediately

you are funny
attractive
read my signals respectfully
and i like the way you think  

when i drift off to sleep
i hear you telling your friends  
you are looking for the real thing this time

i carry a book from the museum of broken relationships in my bag  

two hours have passed
you ask for my name
it's funny you say
that we've been speaking for so long without knowing

when the plane hit ground
you jump in terror
cut of guard in the middle of a sentence
a hand on my knee
you laugh

with a nervous side-way glance
you ask me out

you could be all i ever wanted
and i still wouldn't be there

when you leave
you look back and smile
you got a sad expression on your face
but good manners

i stay behind

you are not him
JayceeJellies Dec 2014
Is something you called me once.
Is it so bad that I thought it was-
Adorable as ****? I hope it's not,
Because that sure would ****.

We use to be closer,
I wish that we still were.
But you and I are in-
different, time-zones that is.

My self confidence has lowered,
Since we've become distanced.
It's true Thunder Lord,
Do you fear my existence?

I wonder if you do.
While you're up top,
Being ******-Dooby-Doo!
You know I have no clue.

I'm gig- gig- giggling so hard,
Right now. Who knew that this,
Scrub Lord could be such a clown?
I guess I knew, somewhere deep down.

I feel pretty silly writing all of this now.
After all you've labeld me.
Which I've done to you as well.
But it sure as hell wasn't easy.

I wrote this kind of fast.
Using memories from,
The past. A past that
Includes you in the cast.

I hope you don't mind me,
Spilling all of this out now.
I just didn't know how to say-
This stuff, it's kind of sacred.

Like a cow is to someone who-
Believes in Hinduism. Oh man,
I feel like I'm crossing some lines,
So I'll finish up, just give me time.

But it is true,
I do miss you.
And I wonder,
If you miss me to.

I don't care about what's happened.
Really, it's in the past now.
And I don't go there that often.
Just when I need to remember something.

So tell me ol' Voli?
Am I still your Annie?
I am being so cheesey.
Just say you'll support me.

And I promise I'll carry-
You.
Ken Pepiton Dec 2018
Taken, gotten, or made, the point of anything
can pierce through everything…

slow
Slow think,
make real

re-al-ize
what fighting for life is…
this is the only
try,
it is not a test.

Take your time, use it wisely,
if that means anything.
Wise, I meant.
No offence, if wise is anathema to your kind,
die,
die if I knocked the reason for being right
outa you,
did you hear cognitive dissonance?
did it sound like
this. LOUD?
listen,
rolling rolling rolling
crash crumble rolled in nurse rime frosted
fables of monsters and maids
Thor, witharoar likka Lion King?

or the light brigade,
CHARGE?

thunder words from lost generations of
reasonless riddles for children,

Why did Peter Pumpkin-eater have a wife, but
couldn't keep her here?
Was that okeh? Oh, wait.
Ah, I see, I say,
they never tell that whole story any more.

Know why? They forgot it. In the war.

Duck'n'cover,no
crying, how long?
When begins forever? Did no one tell you, child?

Taken or made, the point of anything
can pierce through everything
like it was nothing, given
enough pre-sure-sup
poser-power

War, as a game, has a reason.

Battle, hitting, slapping

stop touch, stop now slap
slap back

or cry
oh no no ma

waddayahsay?  A theist or atheist
who started this war?

space case, or
lover of wisdom, met on the road
to Emmaus, discussing Weil's proof
firming Fermi's connection to the matter of fear,
3, 2, 1

Kaboom, but with a whump you feel in your teeth

1, 2, 3 Fermat's last theorem ,
easy as pi an no re me

ABC to
Michael Jackson to
Howard Bloom because he

inadvertently, began
an-ionic converstatic re-vibe time warp
meme,
which vibe, started the legendary Sixties. I was alive.
Radioman,
a sixty cycle white-noise humm heard every where these days

There was a gospel song, "Turn Your Radio On".
my theme, open the window in the top of your head,
as it were,
a new,
as new as

a novel-state of water, H three Ohs, re-al-ity ification,
Ah, a shared Oh, I remember now, how this works…

like a poem

at the edge of a water vapor bubble in a boiling body of water,
at the edge of the bubble, water becomes a wall of water,
not vapor, not flowing liquid,

but a wall, insulating the vapor in pressing opposing force
to permit, from permission,
meaning with a message same as the message,

is that the right word? per-mission-grant, is power given,
agency,
that idea….
wait for the sign….?

By sharing an ion ic bond as a quest to make a point
for a free story to go,
the question marks you. Let the snake dance.

Press your point,

whetted edge,

slice through ties holding worthless axioms
with withered dendrites dangling disconnected
in participles
unfired for centuries muttering,
enchanting, enthralling enchained melodies
of ambitious syllables vying for idle minds
to rope in,
unbranded, wild
bucking ideas,
whip-twig, slap-face,
tanglewood  thicket, catclaw and mesquite,
willow,

wait.
And the old man remembered the willow whistle,
so He asked Grandfather,
How is such a whistle made?
And when he knew,
he made one.

A willow whistle with two notes,
like an Oscar Meir Wiener one.

-- and that was a different time
I got lost here, bucked up…
maybe
--- listen, way back--- we-ain't whistlin' Dixie---
we ain't marchin', as t' war.

D'thet mean some sign to pro-phet -ic take?
Tophet?
Ancient cannon fodder shield walls,
a moaning
Pro-phy-lactic warning of the danger of not
knowing exactly
what a war is for?

Get back on,
relieved of any idle baggage words believed
to mean other than I say.

Nullify
Idle words with cultural meanings from
what you thought you knew when you feared hell.

Loose
those peer-locked memes
made of meaninglessness, per se,

shaped and molded into fashions
of expression, once needles and awls,
now, dull as tinker's damns for swearing,
with any effect.

But tools, none the less, a stitch in time took a tool.
An awl or a needle, and a thread, thick or thin,
dependin' on the mendin' needed
to redeem an idle word,
its meaning all bloodied with the tyranny of time.

An awl or a needle,
a tool for a task, mending a tear
where curses, never meant, spent
the entire dark ages, lying, lying, lying

powerless, pointless aimless, proverbial proverbial proverbial
verbiage, vaneless shafts launched at unseen marks,
signs, as it were, a spark,
triggers,
rumored since the sixties,
the first sixties, when Cain killed Able.
Howard Bloom was but a mere gleam
in our mito-mother's eye,
but, no doubt,

his role is real,
in loosing the forces Ferlinghetti locked in
City Lights mystery of secret meanings room,
which un
mystified and blew away upon opening
the door to
meanings mapped on
scrolls rolling and unrolling
idle ideas,
rites of passage, as it were,
Pre-bat-bar-mitz vah
as a fashion
like VBS,

to tickle little minds and make em wiggle.
MEMEMEME, I did it,
mea culpa,

the holy place
Here we are…

On Vacation, leave a message.
-----

See, wee hairs in your ears wiggle, making,
signaling, the need

to scratch that itch, that itching hearing feeling ear… hear that

don't scratch, listen

listen

60 cycle humm, steady, bass, but no thump whumpwhump;
soft, deeep.
ooooooooo or mmmmmmmm or in betwixt, steady thrumm
hear another, and another… sixty in a second,

one in every million ambits twisting,
threading qubits, radiating signals in the field
wireless, blue-tooth... satellite...

can you feel that?

hummmms, all around us, since the womb.
We are not the children of the greatest generation,

We are the children of the last generation of
**** sapiens sapiens non-augmentable-us.

We, the augmented, recycled ideas,
possessing
minds of Adamkind,

is that a secret or a sacred?
Is this
a new thing, an
unknown unknown known known now?

Ah,
novelty.

Whose is fear? Who was afraid of Virginia Wolf?

Should I remain in fear of her now, if I knew why then?
God would know such answers.
Proving my imagined AI guides are not God,
but lesser beings,

haps I recall.
I defined these things,
these thoughts that shape themselves,
forming words and phrases
I saw
shiny. Crow-like,
gleams seen, captured and claimed mine,
I tucked them away,
a sign in a thought in an imagined image made 4
real once more, to be seen from the shore,
new land new world
a fourth for some, a fifth or more for others...

haps happen, I'm not sure how,

Born or emerged, as a bubble, what do you say?

Reserve judgment.
Grant me your grace for now, until you solve my riddle.

Ah, the old way.
Right. Which way,  'ere, 'ear
and do we roll the rock with silent haitch or harsh, shhh

someone's waking up,
a bit grumpy,
don't you dare oppose me in this, the kid is certainly my son

Michael went stark raving mad when I told him, Billie Jean knew better all along...
the link, axiomatic,
the fatherless child has been claimed

hence, the thread to Howard Bloom, meme-ic,
meme-ic, like the Roadrunner,

but with the real Coyote, as the hero in this bit of
whatever, such meandering maundified maun maund  
mound

wind blown crystal silicon dunes
mounded up to that point where granulated
beens and dones

begin to slide at an angle,
a ***** deter-mind by the weight of the rock

We made it.
I know where this is.

This is a novel that has Sisyphus being happy
as the main premise behind the idea of anyone ever being
able, en abled, or un-dis-abled or un-dis-enabled,
if one of those is right,

Sisyphus being happy
is the main premise behind
the idea of anyone ever being glücklich,
happy, blessed, lucky.

How happy is your ever after?
When did forever begin?

"A man is as happy as he makes up his mind to be"
Abe Lincoln, is said to have said,
after the seance, maybe.

You push on, dear reader, make some sense
re-ligare or relegare, but take a stitch,

pull-tight,
do what works the first time as far as it goes, and try each, as needed,
it may be that we invented this test.
To make us think it is a test,
to sort ourselves out.

Get back on,

see who went crazy and who found the thread, if the same thread
this is that, right,
the same train of thought,
the same idea
spirit wind
sign
?
A snake facing west standing tippy-tail on a singularity;
a point in time?

Why are you reading this?
Curiosity Shoppes trade in interesting, alluring, click-bait

Pay attention, watch, you shall see

imagine this is the dream,
the stream, the flow, the current, the cream

in a dime coffee at the drug store on the corner

the rounded-corner, in a square-cornered town,
the most right corner of the twelve that quarter what it was

Punctuate, wait, imagine you read ancient Hebrew or Greek and there
are no dyer diacritical's who can twist one's
end tensions into knots

dread extensions, we could sell those,
is that an idea? did somebody
sell white folks dread extensions and black folk dolly pardon wigs?

Did that happen the real real?

-----
Battlefield Earth, oshit
scientology ology ology ology

allaye allaye outs in free

WE we wee every we you imagine you are good in, we

We have a war to win again, we heroes rolling from your
myths of Sisyphus torn from minds trampled
in the mud beyond the Rhine,

Mushrooms. magi are aware, you are aware, of course,
this course includes Basic Mycelium Net Adaptation or Augmentation
BMNAA, eh? So you know.

Camus and many of his ilk were ill-treated, the questions
they asked were memorized, maybe in our cribs ala
Brave New World.

We are all Alphas, always were, of course, you know.

Shall we imagine

more? Re-legare, eh, sistere. Point .(Back to the top.)

or agree? Make peace.
Practice, like Eazy-Bake,
the cook must swallow the first bite. May the best cook win.
A continuing examination of opposing forces when good is the goal, who could be against that? The old word war is festering, inflaming evil to start a try, therefore,  I whet the edge and swing wide
murky water,
silence of horror,
the lengthy tunnel,
which includes suffer.

everything starts to rust,
with grey clouds of dust.
if you want to pass this wild,
don't leave the person you are!

'cause this wild has many rats.
battle for blood, killing for spat.
they will try to cut you half,
will try to make you their pet.
Thank you everyone for reading.

To see the full version of "bad friends" and my other poetries you can check this link. It is my poetry blog.
https://muhammedeminkusaslan.blogspot.com/

My instagram: @eminkusaslan

Take care -E
Our nation is
a living organism.
Alive with biochemical
pulsating cells.
Apoptosis,
a cell death
of our nation
are set and
already unwittingly
programmed.
Takes a
multicellular effect
if not checked.
Cell changes and
death is eminent.
Changes includes
blebbing,
cell shrinkage,
nuclear fragmentation,
chromatin condensation,
chromosomal
DNA fragmentation,
and global mRNA.
Apoptosis ,
a falling off occurs.
Our nation is
threatened and going
through same
process as above.
Our acts must
be put together.
There is a
suffocating,
crippling misery,
and destitution.
We are desperately
sliding both into
chaos and despondency.
We must get
out of this
cloud of frustration,
with a profound
physical presence of
sour people grieving
daily,
Don't let them
become too rotten
to infect everyone.
It may be
contagious.
All ships must
sail in one direction,
Or very soon
we all go down.
©2019,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
somberbean Aug 6
Both your presence, and lack of, drains me.
there is no point in fighting anymore,
you are now like the rest.

You turn a blind eye to your discomforts,
and i find no reason to continue
to be disappointed by you.
You now join the army of the silent,
never being bothered enough to care about anything that is not
directly related to yourself.

I guess that includes me now,
and i will take your lack of interest as means of goodbye.

I will not wake you from you slumber to remind you to care,
for it is inauthentic and temporary at best.
i find myself at war with literally just myself, and i think i desire a love from a place that i know really does not want to be a source of it anymore. A transition is hard when it is driven by love, or trying not to be, especially when i feel like i maybe have fallen deeper in love in comparison. Maybe i'm crazy, but this is a manifestation of my frustration.
spaghetti Apr 2016
I know a guy,
he is a friend.
Whom the cops often have to,
apprehend.
He used to do
some crazy ****.
But now he doesn't do most of it.
I know you are thinking,
who is this man.
He is a friend who drives a van.
Although not to pick up kids with treats,
he uses his ride to satisfy his needs.
Which includes dolphin collecting,
live or dead,
he's always selecting.
Vaping real hard
every single day,
is how he spends,
his hard worked pay.
His job is selling,
illegal pelts
of rare albino beavers.
He sets up traps
and waits in the bushes
with an over sized cleaver.
Stalking and waiting for the perfect catch,
he watches the ****** closely.
And right as it comes into reach,
he slits the baby's throat boldly. (baby ****** not a real baby.)
My friend makes his way to the flee market,
where he sells the pelts.
He greets his customers happily,
as the beavers hang from his belt.
Blood on his hands and pride in his eyes,
he knows he's got a great prize.
The money rolls in,
and he know it is true,
that night he will party
until his lungs are blue,
(due to the fat rips he'll be vaping)
On the weekends when he's not working,
he hops into his van,
and drives to the border,
to make sure no illegals are lurking.
Loving his country with deep passion,
my friend protects us,
with the guns he has stashed in. (his van.)
After his duty is fulfilled,
he spends the rest of his time,
all alone,
drinking gallons
of acetone.
Then in the big city
he streaks for hours,
with bags of broken glass,
that he likes to devour.
I totally agree,
my friend is insane,
and on his family,
his acts cause great pain.
Although,
he treats his slaves
with a lot of respect,
and he gives porridge to the
needy and other rejects.
He's better than me,
because I like to suffocate,
small injured birds.
And barge into restaurants,
to steal cheese curds.
But my friend is the best,
friend he can be,
as I described in this poem,
that you can see.
Unless you are blind or stupid,
or don't have anyone to read you this,
just know that my friend,
has your children in his shed,
and they'll sadly be missed.
False Poets Feb 2018
complexity bias

how you love to criticize my poems
as too long and overly complex

poor me, I’m no genius, don’t prosper by exploiting
unrecognized simplicities, rather deconstruct the
intricate complexities that I flatter myself are the me-sinews

Writing is a **** temptation -
we focus on the 10% that is complex and ignore the easy 90%

perhaps this once I will surrender my bare bones
put aside the rich, satisfying of cave diving, urban spelunking
word caressing tongue verbiage rich tapestry exploring -

give you the plane of plain where nestles my destiny: nesting near motionless where the couch is my kingdom and cold cereal is
easily digested and there are no consequences

I am a member of a discriminated-against minority
we have no charismatic leader, no marchers anywhere, and government programs say
hey you’re free white and twenty one plus, get the crap out of
our faces,  you useless piece of rhymes with **** and includes dirt, though I shower twice a day to keep myself occupied

25 years old, a high school dropout, of course I’m white,
my occupation is playing video games and making sure
my supply of opioids is adequate in these great United States
where I was born

there are fewer jobs than none that my application survives
a first glance discardation, and now my disability preempts
any demand to pretend there is gainful employment in store in
my future

this reductio ad absurdum is a technique to expose the fallacy,
ah what’s that you say no interest in hanging about,
on your way out, of course, of course,
we are the wrong flavor of downtrodden

my life is simple - simplistic in its a chaotic entropic way,
order slowly declines into disorder

my rituals are a fight against slip sliding down, falling off the
the Herzog continuums
and the poems are desperate hand holds to prevent my
going, gone under

so forgive me if I tax you without possessing not the
requisite taxing authority

you hone in on the obvious disparities and my contradictions

resenting my sending you this bill of extravagant length

compose with me and a mean will be located and to sleep I go,
perhaps to undress my dreams and explicate the wealthy multiples of complexity in the simplicity of a junkies life
17711 Apr 21
the October wind grazes
along fields of my skin
but August still lingers with suffocation,
humidity continually seeping

as rustling leaves made a girl
knowing colors would change
permeating a hint of cinder
from the stems, the bark, the branches

hooves cautiously drifting
drawn to low static
the flow of chemistry
over pebbles and geology

my reality is laid to rest
but awoken by peaceful dreams
naturally creating moments
art by which exists in visceral beams

we learn that the wind carries infancy
the substrate holds discovery
the water reveals change, if not time
and the brain develops meaning
-belonging only to seen ambience
-to which includes ourselves
The best tea parties
in the whole wide world
are hosted, not by queens,
but by little five-year-old girls:

They're major dress-up,
with a who's who guest list
that includes
teddy bears, Barbie dolls,
and sock puppets.

They must always have
a special theme,
be it the family pet's birthday
or in honor of a favorite
cartoon character.

What she serves
is anybody's guess,
and indeed,
the menu will vary
for it's all make believe,
but her imagination
is quite real,
and a big part of the charm.

Count your lucky stars if invited.
Carter Ginter Jan 2018
I must admit
That I hadn't
Thought about our song
For quite a while now
But I would never forget it

I remember you playing it for me
Your amazing voice echoing across the walls
Of that small, somewhat creepy, practice room
I remember how I could feel
This energy between us that
Fueled those lyrics' creation

You've always been a beautiful writer
I was definitely jealous when I first read it
That day we sat in the library
You were supposed to be working
But we've always made our own rules

I wish I could explain
The hurt I feel while reading our past
So clearly plastered across this bright screen
Similar to how I feel
While replaying these memories
But it's complicated
And I've always been bad with my feelings

I'm sorry I've been quiet these days
I have other poems in the works
That might better explain where I'm at
But it doesn't mean I don't care

I reread your texts a lot today
Trying to decide if it's worth it
To engage in conversation
When it just always ends the same way
My feelings and thoughts
Could never agree
So I didn't say anything back

I'm listening to that song you sent me now
I wasn't sure what you meant by it
And I'm not fond of the sound
But I feel and think of you
When I hear the lyrics

And speaking of songs
My heart basically stopped today
Because my new Spotify
Includes a playlist with depressing music
And of course it played "I've Given Up on You"
It reminds me of you undeniably
But the title means something different this time

I don't want you to think that
I've given up on you
And assume that my silence
Means that I don't care
I love you
I always will
But you're also bad for me right now

Your aggression
While possibly justifiable
Hurts my soul and
Absorbs all of the energy
That I need
To take care of myself
And others

But I am still here
I'm a phone call away
I can't say we can be friends at this moment
Because it was harder for me
Than I had thought it would be

But don't think I don't remember
And don't think I don't care
Because you're still everywhere
From the music I vibe to
And the games I can't play
But more than anywhere else
You're in my thoughts and memories
And those still torture me
Fidel Nov 2018
I’ve been losing sleep,
You say you need to lose weight,
But all this running through my mind should have worked just fine,
Our friends tell me we can’t be good for each other,
But all I can see is how great your smile makes me feel I wonder
Will I ever live to see you?
See you hold my hand by the beach in Australia,
You know how much I love koalas
But for your love I’d give up a thousand just to call you mine for a second in my life,
Your love as a friend is the best, the best, the best I’ve ever had,
For that alone I want to call you mine,
Even if that includes another bruise in my mind, just another to the side,
Maybe for you,
But for me number 60 seems great, great so so great,
Because I know if with you I make love,
It would all be different,
For once and first I would love you til the end of time,

I would, I would **** my vibe,
Would quit the drinking just to see you sober,
Drunk you seem the greatest but only sober do I know who you are,
My one and only, forever mine but only sober will I know you aren’t mine,
I’ve killed to live, killed the other guy who smoked and cried to be the man you deserved but you don’t see the angel that I love,
You got the perfect smile,
Most perfect set of eyes,
Tell me what you like and I’ll write a poem to make you and live the fortune of seeing you smile,
Hugging you felt like drinking *****,
So cold but burnt me because ****, I love you.
I’ve looked from every point and perspective, but I can’t see you as the villain,
So did she tell me, you would steal me and I would never call her again,
This is all Deja Vu, because I love you but you tell me this could never work,
Platonic solemnly, not to raise my hopes and play my feelings like that ***,
Just please tell me honey, would you love me,
If all the rest was lost and forgotten?
Because even if so I would still be there, to hold you after another one played your heart,
Just because my love is real and forgone,
All because you been hurt and forgone by many that came to go and leave your life with a scar but I’m here to stay until you make me go,
Then I’ll forever be gone but just until you call me back to ask for help of which I will with all my mighty fight to succeed at making you happy,
But this is all it,
This is all Deja Vu, I feel like I’ve said this before because I would give you all that’s nothing just to make you smile and see you work it,
Doesn’t matter how hard to be and how long it might take me to do it,
I might finish after your wish is gone but even then I’ll restart just to make sure you are still wishing,
Wish all the wishes just make sure none of them include me leaving your life,
Because I brought my bags and from here I don’t wanna move,
I’ll go on a trip to take some pics,
Write a cute couple lines,
Just to see that smile of yours,
That for so long I’ve been staring through a screen and don’t check the analysis because its all a cover for you not to question.
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?
BBC article conclusion.
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