"lyricists" poems
I'm grateful for my family in ink I think that I'd be insane in the brain I was a lyrical lame now I found I can spit bars with the best they pushed me to the brink beyond my limits I'm in this for life Drs Joke, Midnight Writer, Blue Star with the heart and Cashby, Natasha, Mandy Nothing could tear my poetic family apart we argue and have our issues but it's solved within so we can continue to become stronger as people and as lyricists while I split heads as the poetic mafia axe murderer I'll serve ya like a platter cut your *** like class and watch ya brains splatter all other emcees better scatter poetic blades out and slice and dice like vanilla ices career ending faster like the flash while we make a splash in poetic pools of blood it's like we opened up a dam with a creative flood
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 10:02 PM UTC
We were a beleaguered bard born,
a chief in chatoyant charms charged with
the principle petrichor of passionate paramours;
to drive the dainty dalliances
of incipient ingénues immured in
glamourous gossamer gowns;
lilting, lead lissome lads 'long labyrinthine love;
mischeiviously make mellifluous mondegreens;
sing of such serendipity: surreptitiously susurrous sessions
scintillas of Spring's sempiternal sentiments!
But fetching fugues fade fast, felicity's fated to fly. For
penumbral poets, it portends a pyrrhic pay.
We wander woebegone, waiting wistfully.
Lovers leave lyricists to languish in lonely lassitude.
The halcyon heyday has harbingered
inbroglio in the inured inventor of infatuation.
Why? With what wherewithal?
Often our offerings off us, opposite of, obviously, obtaining, or,
lucidly: lyrical lacers of Love likewise lack its livening lagniappe.
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 11:59 AM UTC
FLC , if you don't know what that means
let me take some time to explain who I be
I'm the fun loving criminal, spitting rhymes and lyrics that are subliminal, touching your conscious as I raise above the nonsense,
that surrounds me and the hip hop industry.
Gun, knives and bling bling is the image and lifestyle,
that will get you locked up in sing sing.
Too many rappers out there are just posers.
When will they wake up and see that trying to act gangsta,
will not help them to be,
better...lyricists
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 12:38 PM UTC
when i heard about it,
when i heard of “free art:”
i thought of free bread and wine,
and celtic sirens,
i laughed though... you made the earth
so ******* boring we all wanted to become astronauts.
when art became free we tried to moralise
drinking wine (as a portent of richness)
and eating bread (as a portent of the russian revulsion),
i bought my art.. and waited for the ones who
discouraged it complaining buying their bread “well fed.”
the celtic sirens hung on though, singing softer and softer
but more prone to the acid tongues dragging the democrats into
a hope of kings and village kindred elders,
but i still didn’t hope for free artistry that was akin to circus,
caged the gypsy have i?
i have, but i did not warrant free food or free aquas of variation,
i simplified freeing the demands with the demands freed into excess,
well... if i were kingly i’d still have provided free bread and wine
rather than music and the curbing the excesses of lyricists;
making music free just discouraged all originality, all creativity,
it just became a realism of a struggled acting -
i feel cheated having missed the antics of britannia in
the 1960's and '70's like it was greek and roman without
the epileptics of watching a documentary on trans-sexualisation
of brazilians and ******** disco to gag on an excess of flashy lights
just to sell lipstick... and have these quasi-epileptic shivers
without having an opposing opinion to counter the freely stated & fluxed.
i guess my convulsions were due to the fact that the men
didn’t call it either homosexuality nor trans-sexuality,
and that i was actually looking at two dodos talking, meaning
i was seeing the extinction of the human race through the ****
meaning i was watching the knights templar idol, baphomet,
realised 2000 years after the crucifixion in that crown of thorn dreams,
perfected in thailand... of all places;
that actually beats the identification of ibn saud as the dajjal,
moving further east of mecca than riyadh and
the assassination attempt within the framework of muhammad’s hadith of ‘no entry’ into mecca by the dajjal.
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 11:17 PM UTC
You're such a killer
On the mike
You should find a dealer
To distribute you like Nike
On every foot,
Get you heard
On every ear,
Grow a root
Spring a word
Leaves; a gear
Turning
While the light
You be burning
Bring the fight
With the beat
Lyricists you defeat
Before they even
Get to retaliate
They get to leaving
Incinerate
Their bridges
Never gonna cross
Slip on frozen ridges,
Fountain coin toss;
Wishes never see
Bumble without the bee...
© okpoet
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 3:39 AM UTC
How many rhymes and lines,
Have met the same paper,
With the same pen,
Minds thoughts and designs,
Differ from poet to next,
Lyricists to artists,
Beginning a new quest,
Breaking and making,
Pain and love,
Experienced emotions lay down,
Written in rhythm,
Express to distress,
Tearing page after page,
Of flooding emotions,
Signature of similar,
Inked on white,
Within multiple occasions,
How many authors,
Write the same write?
May 20, 2017
May 20, 2017 at 2:33 PM UTC
Lend me a tune
*(For Robert C Howard,
One of the lucky ones)*
"But I'll know my song well before I start singing". Bob Dylan
Some of us poets,
some of us musicians, and a few,
A very blessed few
Songwriters and lyricists,
Poets in sound and words,
Both.
Wish I knew how to
Compose some love song music notes,
But can't carry a tune,
Seems to me,
Comes first the music,
Must music comes first
So with conceit and disbelief,
Wrote words and shot 'em into space,
Hoping they'd pass thru galaxies,
Maybe a comet tail,
Find a Songster who will strum them
Into perfect, into complete
I ain't unhappy that all I got
Was the lesser gift of
Humming words to myself,
Ain't dissatisfied, but wish they
Could be ratified, by the music
Of a voice singing them to me
Or fingers tapping, happening them
Played upon the ivories upon my chest,
Where the lyrics are aborning,
The chest that needs
Music to be whole, and word-completing
Wish I knew how to
Compose some love notes
But can't carry a tune,
Seems to me
Music,
Must come first
So let's make some music
**** right, together,
Finish these lyrics jointly,
When all finito, pointedly
Needed your music, my darling,
Music to make them soar,
Take our co-sing-song,
Dance to it with our bodies
Sing words the whole night long
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 8:38 AM UTC
All the great lyricists of the world
will always regard love as a rose;
beautiful and elegant,
its sweet aroma as dizzying as its
deep sultry red,
its petals as succinct and complex as
the layered patterns of admiration.
But when do they remember to mention
that to hold a rose close enough to
take in its delicate scent or profound beauty
one must hold it by the stem,
and if one squeezes, even just the smallest bit too tight,
the thorns smartly come into the skin,
and make the holder bleed their true self
onto the garden grass?
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 10:46 PM UTC
You say we have the same eyes,
and I could spend eternity trying to wax poetic,
emphasizing ambers, honeys, and suns,
that can only mimic their radiance from our forms.
But they fall short of where my agony lives,
and I say agony because
lyricists say this is roller coasters,
ferris wheels, sunny days, and stormy nights,
where joy is the absence of suffering.
But somewhere in history,
four small hands grasped dirt and dust
only to find life inside,
abandoning philosophy for something more precious.
To think our fingertips have touched the same earth
is what the pious must feel before death.
How can you say we have the same eyes
when mine are wildfire tragedy,
and yours are January’s starlight?
When we were once rooted there was something shared,
only for it to be ripped from my body
to feel like a winter without snow.
I am undeserving, and yet
it will only be moments until I remove your ribs,
stealing ichor from the gods,
because it is my own vindication,
or perhaps,
the only thing I know.
And still, you only graze me like porcelain.
Jan 24, 2022
Jan 24, 2022 at 6:14 PM UTC
A locked box has the bodies of three different birds, all blue, all lyricists, all beautiful and stuffed with Xanax and newspaper. I paid my childhood best friend's brother to taxidermy them, stitch up their stomachs once and for all.
My closet only has memories. A bracelet with a feather on it that smells like fear, looks like betrayal, **** dealer, track pants, self-proclaimed whiny ***** A painting I made when I was six. All the pills I stole from my boyfriend, thirty-seven. All the pills that would've knocked my world out cold, skin cold, heart still, pulse still, veins finally at rest. A knife a psychopath gave me. Yes, he was a romantic, and yes, he did ruin my life, so in essence, still just a romantic. A fox hat I bought standing next to one of my under appreciated best friends, recovered anorexic. He's at college right now, falling in something close to love, probably another early grave. A too big teddy bear from someone I thought was the formula for the speed of light once. He's trying to force feed pills and slip **** into all my friend turned surrogate son's sentences. I am wishing I could lay a curse on his name. His mother already did it for me.
A drawer beside my bed, packed full of **** Candy wrappers, gum, crumbs, marks of my self-proclaimed obesity, all 120 pounds of me feeling like the weight of the world and everyone's eyes. My inhaler, because these lungs don't want me to run. Pictures and letters from the ones I love, because I'm a romantic. Plastic dinosaurs, dried flowers, pennies, dimes, lotion, Neosporin, a deck of Tarot cards.
I'm just a vessel for all the things I can't fit inside my mouth. I can't tell into you what I've seen, I can only pull out the receipts. I can give you the ****** tissues my boyfriend handed me. Tell me how your stomach retches. I can give you the poem a crazy person wrote me. Tell me how you feel his void. I can give you my heart. Tell me how heavy it all is.
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 1:37 AM UTC
You must miss me
must miss the kiss of me
The break had to make You ache
MISTAKE
I can write now what will still be
years after You've forgotten about me
in the myriad of mirrors in my mind
Yur diamonds shall be the sole soul shine
every bit as real and raw and radiant as the first moment
they raced and rained and raised their reign within clint
reflections refuse to fade
each an inflection of Yur voice
a forever of Yur face
a reminder there ain't never been noe choice
every pissant poignant poet
weaving emotion images with their words
all the cunning linguist lyricists
singing lies and lines they think you've never heard
didn't actually feel any ******* thing
knew not one iota beyond nothing
of life
of love
of living in love
pathetic paintless portraits
(tattoos on a corpse)
empty echoes of nothing notes
(dealt by the deaf and the dead)
but I bet it's not their fault
they probably never felt a real fall
a feather float race up the rapids
with the fluffy grace of rabid rabbits
Not so for this man who be me
my feather has done dancin' shakin' in anti-gravity
I have sung sacred songs as angels swum along
our feather mountain biking heaven-strong
Of course our river was an awesome flow
(a hot-tub raft in moonlit snow)
And Our Poems were always best in show guitar glow
cuz I had You to Noe
yet the Mostest WOW was not enough somehow
the Bestest LOVE of this Life is not alive now
here I am again
a millennium worse than i've ever been
fetal black rose petals
dead dull dried
all their thorns' tears cried
no light left in my once bright blue eyes
dead and drowned and dried out
cried out
ashen grey
nothing evermore to say
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 11:23 PM UTC
Beautiful women and beautiful girls,
Your hips were made to rule the world
To knock it off center with one switch in your step
The power you possess many people forget
Including yourself, other women and too many times men
We build ourselves up, they try to break us down again
I just got one question for them:
What happened to chivalry?
To women of the 21st century
You were their heart always worn on their sleeve
And a man that cheated but he didn't leave
To many young girls you were nothing more
Than a broken frame on a kitchen floor
Mixed with their mothers tears
Because that's the only form that their fathers appeared...
Tear down the walls that make your word night
And look to the sun and make darkness into light
All you need in your life is a beautiful smile
Only to know that you're worthwhile
You're so much more than your *** and your *******
You are defined by your intellect
You are not the measurements that lyricists impose
You are not correlated with the amount of skin you show.
But rather when you show what you know.
Beautiful Women and Beautiful Girls
Your hips are made to rule the world.
Challenge the world with your beautiful mind
Words of wisdom as numerous as stars that shine.
Jul 19, 2011
Jul 19, 2011 at 6:47 PM UTC
A message to the past and the future
not for the faint of heart, crass.
A lonely whisky bottle made for rapture
now floating towards capture
enraptured for the cycle of life.
Cyclical and lyrical mysticism,
lyricists binding ciphers, skinning with a knife
ride through a maze with the pied piper, don’t fight.
We idolize with holy reverence what a reference,
follow around with perseverance and benevolence.
I got a secret for you that might kick up some dirt,
But, hush, don’t get too constipated *** this might hurt,
Listen, here is the deal:
Head towards your following,
amass your biblical seal,
but you’ll get knocked down with zeal,
and you’ll feel the loving embrace of fear!
Cyclical and lyrical mysticism,
lyricists binding ciphers, skinning with a knife
ride through a maze with the pied piper, don’t fight.
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 11:53 AM UTC
The world inflicts wounds
I don't react.
Follows old diktats
While I see them quiet.
Treads the wrong way
And the majority sway.
I don't have a word to say.
Encourages stupidity
Motivates ignorance.
Punishes you for being right.
Rescuing the truth despite.
Still I don't react.
Kills you, destroys you
Stifles your inner voice
Undeserving people taste success
While the intelligentsia demise.
And still I am a dumb witness.
Well.. I am quiet.
But you never knew.
An ongoing fight ensues
Within a chosen few.
We call them writers
We call them lyricists
The misfits and the poets.
Fight is on
As they write along.
Behind closed doors.
The moment you say
'Yea that's true.'
We know its gone through.
Their work they dont sell
They are a closed door rebel.
Swording with the pen.
They fight battles unknown.
Their work don't sell.
They are a closed door rebel.
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 12:03 AM UTC
Hello, my name is Dennis Drain, I am 17 years old and currently attending Silver Creek High School as a junior. My school has officially made changes to its curriculum to fit a big picture school. In this form of schooling students explore there interests and gain high school accreditation threw the real world work they do in the community. In speaking to my advisory teacher Mr. Topp we have found that having an interview with a musician who knows the business would positively impact my career. I have great interest in the rap industry. I have allot of lyrics that I have wrote and would like to start recording. As part of my semester goals I would like to start to build a foundation of musicians, lyricists, company leaders, and producers. You can contact my advisory teacher Mr.Topp during the hours of 9:00 Am and 3:30 Pm at the schools number (208)-578-5060 or through email at [email protected] . I would be able to do the interview via Skype, Facetime or Googlechat. Please help me in attempting to chase my dream through hard work, persistence and the community you belong to. You can contact me personally via email at [email protected] facebook or by phone at (208)-720-0961 ask for Dennis. Thank you for your attention to this email, I look forward to speaking with you in the near future.
- Dennis Drain
ZtickZ
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 3:29 PM UTC
Do you remember that night?
This was moment I loved you.
I was so deeply terrified;
I cried in relief as I burrowed my face in your embrace;
So silly of me,
All that fear in being left alone for the first time.
You probably never knew.
I'm always taken by your memory
And we're long and over,
The people we were no longer exist.
I am in love with a kind man
Who is my world.
And you are a friend to me,
No longer the shining knight
But a sentimental bestie
Too far away to talk often.
But sometimes I dream about you;
Back when you were the safest place I knew
It takes me to a forgotten sanctuary
You put deep in my heart
I go there and I feel again.
I go there and I'm free.
I'm reborn a newer self.
And now I know why all the famous lyricists
Lament the great mystique of young love
For I find my former self anew
In the memory of you.
And though words fail to convey;
I am forever grateful.
May 16, 2018
May 16, 2018 at 1:39 PM UTC
Lyrical inertia.
Witchkraft chemistry seems so elementary for these progressing professing purposes.
You have lost my respect for your reflex cannot accept fear as a stimulus.
**** is a nightmare on regrets? Ridiculous!
This mission gets a lyricists in trouble.
For being known is an everyday struggle.
I don't know you.
You don't know me.
I said this a thousand times .
Your ****** gland has been incalcified.
As I stand alone with divine chromosomes.
The stupid are docile. yet in their eyes successful as a prize for the PROPHET'S food.
While the self aware fails to produce I cannot feel
what it is to lose.
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 7:19 AM UTC
Now It's Clear That Some Heads...
Need To See That I GET IT... !!!
That...
ARROGANCE And EGO...
..... Can DISCREDIT.....
Your Claims To Be IMPRESSIVE...
In Art That You're... Representing...
Now It Could Just Be...
JEALOUSY Or ENVY... ?!?
of The... Level of BELIEF... !!!
That Might APPEAR To EXCEED...
..... HUMILITY In Me.....
But It’s Simply THAT...
And That’s... A FACT... !!!
Or Maybe It’s THIS...
The Current SOFTENING...
of How People Live...
Well In FACT EXIST... !!!
Due To VIRUSES...
And... Contrivances...
That Have Now...
QUELLED REBELS...
On... Various Levels... !!!
People Are DISHEVELLED...
And Just Like Killah Priest...
Have HEAVY MENTALS... !!!
But NOT LIKE Him...
Or Guys Like... ME... !!!
Who Is An... ARTIST...
Who Has MORE Lyrics...
Than MOST Lyricists...
Who Are In The Business...
of Making... HITS... !!!
So TRUST When I Say...
That... I DO GET IT... !!!
BUT My Wordplays’ NOT GENERIC...
Or Written For... COMPETITIONS... !!!
What I Write Is SERIOUS STUFF... !!!
I Know That Some Are Just Poking FUN... !!!
But Some Clearly BELIEVE...
That BIG VIRGE Doesn’t See...
That He Needs HUMILITY... ?!?
And Yes I’m Now Talking...
In The... THIRD PERSON...
Because... BIG VIRGE...
Is Just Another Version... !!!
of Who The Man VIRGIL...
REALLY Is... TRULY... !!!
A Man Who Deals...
In... DEEP ARTISTRY... !!!
So My... EXPRESSION ...
Is Just What STRENGTHENS...
INSECURITIES...
That Sometimes Reach...
BIG PARTS of... My Psyche... !!!
But As A Good Buddy...
Said To Me... Recently...
“Don’t listen to the haters Virge,
because your use of verse,
when it’s well observed,
does show superiority,
that’s above the artistry,
that nowadays comes cheap,
with egos that exceed,
the place where they should be !”
So You See...
It’s A DIFFICULT Thing... !!!
To BALANCE EGOS That Live...
Inside... SERIOUS Artists... !!!
So BEFORE You Think It’s COOL... !!!
To Start Making CLAIMS...
And To Hurl Abusive Views...
About An EGO...
That You ASSUME...
Is A... MASSIVE Part...
of The Big Virge DUDE... !!!
DON’T Get It CONFUSED... !?!
I’ve Said It BEFORE...
And I’ll... Say It AGAIN... !!!
My Style Is RAW...
And DOESN’T Play...
… I STAND ALONE... !!!
And DON’T Write For The Folks...
Who Take Life For A JOKE... !!!
I’m A SERIOUS Bloke... !!!
Whose Poetic Quotes...
Are Those That Go...
With The Type of Egos...
Whose Art Is DOPE... !!!
And This Has Been Expressed...
By A NUMBER of Heads...
On The WORLD WIDE WEB... !!!
From DIFFERENT Continents... !!!
And From Those Who Were There...
And Were In MY PRESENCE...
When I’ve Performed Poems...
LIVE And... DIRECT... !!!
So That’s Right I’ll DERIDE...
Artistry That I Find...
DOESN’T Exercise...
My Body Or Mind... !!!
In Ways That ELEVATE... !!!
Or Make My Hips GYRATE... !!!
And BELIEVE Me When I Say...
That I KNOW My Art Holds WEIGHT... !!!
And Is Just NOT Seen As... GREAT...
Because My Ego DOESN'T DEFLATE... !!!
Around Those Who BELIEVE...
In The HYPE That They Receive...
From The Media And TV... !!!
And Because...
UNLIKE These Heads Who EXUDE...
… The Type of EGOS...
That Could COVER Up THE MOON...
I DO TRY To Keep Mine COOLED...
But To Write In The Way...
That... I NOW DO... !!!
“ Of Course I’ve Got One Too ! “
Aug 31, 2021
Aug 31, 2021 at 1:07 AM UTC
All of those love songs make a different noise.
Each background cello note vibrates on my panel of heartstrings, snapping them one by one.
Each minor note sung by broken hearted lyricists swells in my lungs and scratches upward into a mournful wimper.
Even the upeat drums thud hollow and muffled in comparison to my souls echoing cries.
Music can not be music when the one my heart sings for ripped himself away, not bothering to finish our chorus.
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 9:05 PM UTC
keep going back to cool stuff I once made &
rereading it applying some changes
to certain ones at times; it's frustrating
that, after the latest rhyme piece written
I have created nothing decent
and am kind of wasting time on thI̲s one
where are those several lines
after penning which I, eventually, wi[aɪ]nd
up having devised a barful sheet?
how & what the hell to indite?
go, like an overnight lodge, hO̲[ɑ]stile? ge[ɪ]t
["hostel"]
a mo[ɑ]p & fire lead
at poor lyricists or strike auto[ɑ]cracy
and agents of this kind of po[ɑ]litics
with spite like prior sh#t
of mine? something like the stuff in which
much of bo[ɑ]dy harm's received
by the unrighteous targets picked?
going that way reminds me of the knight of Go[ɑ]tham with
that armored co[ɑ]stume pU̲t on
[the Batman in an armored suit from the "Dawn Of Justice" film]
like that warmonge[—]ring nuisance (it's all the West!)
'cause that kind of stuff's the stro[ɑ]ngest suit &
it's somewhat dark as well
but it's O̲[ʌ]f no help to the psycholo[ɑ]gic health
change the cu[ʌ]rrent bell
[style; the "change one's tune" expression]
on something which has no[ɑ]t a knell-
-like vibe to it? how in the ****** hell?
have to be afflicted by a spell
or something to have the lyric-writing shelf
o[ʌ]f mine supplied with stuff like
that; in fact, there's one which is kind of well
in terms of the least of violence dealt
and having the least of toxic vibe as well
it's that night fun tale
["a night out rhyme tale"]
write something personal?
not like some ****** flick
but that's horrible
'cause I am pro[ɑ]bably go[ʌ]nna wI̲[aɪ]nd up with
something writ as if by a whining b#tch (again)
with all that versified, it seems
it may be better, like a nau[ɑ]ghty chick
with a zoomorphic co[ɑ]stume kink
to opt for a tale of some kind (tail)
something with the littlest o[ʌ]f spite
and sans an in-the-dumps vibe
still, it's easier to just go a[ɑ]dverse
whether I target authO̲r—
—itarianism or chU̲mps who've go[ɑ]t poor
bars, instead of tryna cO̲me up with
sO̲mething else, which is whY̲ it feels
like a comfO̲rt... zone
(a writer's comfort zone)
Feb 27, 2024
Feb 27, 2024 at 8:47 AM UTC
with a hellish mess of originality!
she don’t care, that my own estimation
is droopy, my slip showing, nah, she’s
howling and I’m returning her “favor”
***** you’re my ruination,appearing
regularly around 3:00am, with three
or more poems for me to store, as if
the world awaits my/our awakening,
muse gaslighting, trolling my brain!*
she replies:
“they come sad and easy, fed to me
in spaghetti string lines, forkfuls
of stanzas, wicked, which I lace
upon your lips for easy retrieving,
reliving them gloriously here on HP
Of course, if you prefer this woman
can disappear, like a rolling stone,
plenty new aborning poets, lyricists,
crying out for inspiration, satisfaction,
how about an adieu, bye to my how-de-do?”
she got me by my spectacles, knowing I’d
take her haunting just to write a single word,
all my own, even if took ten years long; laughing
at me, saying “you’re not the first to make that deal”
so if you see creations from a [email protected],
it ain’t me babe, just another man who sold his everything,
for a passing hallelujah, or worse, even a finale selah...
Sep 7, 2020
Sep 7, 2020 at 5:08 PM UTC
THE POET'S LOUNGE,
LET'S ALL
GATHER AROUND,
ALL......
POET'S, LYRICISTS,
ALL WRITERS, and SONNETEERS,
ALL STORYTELLERS, RHYMERS,
and
VERSIFIERS,
as we
BLEND IN HARMONY and
START to INSPIRE,
ALL ARE WELCOME,
LET'S BRING THE JUICE,
TO THE POETESS, SONGSTERS,
METRICIST AND MUSE,
COME AND JOIN THE GANG,
IF YOU SO CHOOSE,
AS WE
VERSE BY VERSE and
SOUND BY SOUND,
I WELCOME YOU ALL
TO:
THE POET'S LOUNGE!!!!!
B.R.
DATE: 3/14/2025
Mar 14, 2025
Mar 14, 2025 at 11:33 PM UTC