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AAron Roz May 2018
Music is loud or quiet.
Music is soft or heavy.
Music can have meaning or not.
Music can be nothing or everything.
Music is:
◾Art Punk
◾Alternative Rock
◾College Rock
◾Crossover Thrash (thx Kevin G)
◾Crust Punk (thx Haug)
◾Experimental Rock
◾Folk Punk
◾Goth / Gothic Rock
◾******* Punk
◾Hard Rock
◾Indie Rock
◾Lo-fi (hat tip to Ben Vee Bedlamite)
◾New Wave
◾Progressive Rock
◾Shoegaze (with thx to Jackie Herrera)
◾Steampunk (with thx to Christopher Schaeffer)

•Blues ◾Acoustic Blues
◾Chicago Blues
◾Classic Blues
◾Contemporary Blues
◾Country Blues
◾Delta Blues
◾Electric Blues
◾Ragtime Blues (cheers GFS)

•Children’s Music ◾Lullabies

•Classical ◾Avant-Garde
◾Chamber Music
◾Classical Crossover
◾Contemporary Classical (thx Julien Palliere)
◾Early Music
◾Expressionist (thx Mr. Palliere)
◾High Classical
◾Modern Composition
◾Romantic (early period)
◾Romantic (later period)
◾Wedding Music

•Comedy ◾Novelty
◾Standup Comedy
◾Vaudeville (cheers Ben Vee Bedlamite)

•Commercial (thank you Sheldon Reynolds) ◾Jingles
◾TV Themes

•Country ◾Alternative Country
◾Contemporary Bluegrass
◾Contemporary Country
◾Country Gospel
◾Country Pop (thanks Sarah Johnson)
◾***** Tonk
◾Outlaw Country
◾Traditional Bluegrass
◾Traditional Country
◾Urban Cowboy

•Dance (EDM – Electronic Dance Music – see Electronic below – with thx to Eric Shaffer-Whiting & Drew :-)) ◾Club / Club Dance (thx Luke Allfree)
◾Breakbeat / Breakstep
◾Brostep (cheers Tom Berckley)
◾Chillstep (thx Matt)
◾Deep House (cheers Venus Pang)
◾Electro House (thx Luke Allfree)
◾Future Garage (thx Ran’dom Haug)
◾Glitch Hop (cheers Tom Berckley)
◾Glitch Pop (thx Ran’dom Haug)
◾Grime (thx Ran’dom Haug / Matthew H)
◾Hard Dance
◾Hi-NRG / Eurodance
◾Horrorcore (thx Matt)
◾Jackin House (with thx to Jermaine Benjamin Dale Bruce)
◾Jungle / Drum’n’bass
◾Liquid Dub(thx Ran’dom Haug)
◾Regstep (thanks to ‘Melia G)
◾Speedcore (cheers Matt)
◾Trap (thx Luke Allfree)

•Easy Listening ◾Bop

•Electronic ◾2-Step (thx Ran’dom Haug)
◾8bit – aka 8-bit, Bitpop and Chiptune – (thx Marcel Borchert)
◾Bassline (thx Leon Oliver)
◾Chillwave(thx Ran’dom Haug)
◾Chiptune (kudos to Dominik Landahl)
◾Crunk (with thx to Jillian Edwards)
◾Drum & Bass (thx Luke Allfree)
◾Electro-swing (thank you Daniel Forthofer)
◾Electronic Rock
◾Hardstyle (kudos to Dominik Landahl)
◾Trip Hop (thank you Michael Tait Tafoya)

•French Pop
•German Folk
•German Pop
•Fitness & Workout
•Hip-Hop/Rap ◾Alternative Rap
◾***** South
◾East Coast Rap
◾Gangsta Rap
◾******* Rap
◾Latin Rap
◾Old School Rap
◾Turntablism (thank you Luke Allfree)
◾Underground Rap
◾West Coast Rap

•Holiday ◾Chanukah
◾Christmas: Children’s
◾Christmas: Classic
◾Christmas: Classical
◾Christmas: Comedy
◾Christmas: Jazz
◾Christmas: Modern
◾Christmas: Pop
◾Christmas: R&B
◾Christmas: Religious
◾Christmas: Rock
◾Holiday: Other

•Indie Pop
•Inspirational – Christian & Gospel ◾CCM
◾Christian Metal
◾Christian Pop
◾Christian Rap
◾Christian Rock
◾Classic Christian
◾Contemporary Gospel
◾Christian & Gospel
◾Praise & Worship
◾Qawwali (with thx to Jillian Edwards)
◾Southern Gospel
◾Traditional Gospel

•Instrumental ◾March (Marching Band)

•J-Pop ◾J-Rock

•Jazz ◾Acid Jazz (with thx to Hunter Nelson)
◾Avant-Garde Jazz
◾Bebop (thx Mwinogo1)
◾Big Band
◾Blue Note (with thx to Jillian Edwards)
◾Contemporary Jazz
◾Crossover Jazz
◾Ethio-jazz (with thx to Jillian Edwards)
◾Gypsy Jazz (kudos to Mike Tait Tafoya)
◾Hard Bop
◾Latin Jazz
◾Mainstream Jazz
◾Smooth Jazz
◾Trad Jazz

•Latin ◾Alternativo & Rock Latino
◾Argentine tango (gracias P. Moth & Sandra Sanders)
◾Baladas y Boleros
◾Bossa Nova (with thx to Marcos José Sant’Anna Magalhães & Alex Ede for the reclassification)
◾Contemporary Latin
◾Cumbia (gracias Richard Kemp)
◾Flamenco / Spanish Flamenco (thank you Michael Tait Tafoya & Sandra Sanders)
◾Latin Jazz
◾Nuevo Flamenco (and again Michael Tafoya)
◾Pop Latino
◾Portuguese fado (and again Sandra Sanders)
◾Reggaeton y Hip-Hop
◾Regional Mexicano
◾Salsa y Tropical

•New Age ◾Environmental

•Pop ◾Adult Contemporary
◾Bubblegum Pop (thx Haug & John Maher)
◾Chamber Pop (thx Haug)
◾Dance Pop
◾Dream Pop (thx Haug)
◾Electro Pop (thx Haug)
◾Orchestral Pop (thx Haug)
◾Pop Punk (thx Makenzie)
◾Power Pop (thx Haug)
◾Soft Rock
◾Synthpop (thx Haug)
◾Teen Pop

•R&B/Soul ◾Contemporary R&B
◾Disco (not a top level genre Sheldon Reynolds!)
◾Doo ***
◾Modern Soul (Cheers Nik)
◾Northern Soul (Cheers Nik & John Maher)
◾Psychedelic Soul (thank you John Maher)
◾Quiet Storm
◾Soul Blues (Cheers Nik)
◾Southern Soul (Cheers Nik)

•Reggae ◾2-Tone (thx GFS)
◾Roots Reggae

•Rock ◾Acid Rock (with thanks to Alex Antonio)
◾Adult-Oriented Rock (thanks to John Maher)
◾Afro Punk
◾Adult Alternative
◾Alternative Rock (thx Caleb Browning)
◾American Trad Rock
◾Anatolian Rock
◾Arena Rock
◾Art Rock
◾British Invasion
◾**** Rock
◾Death Metal / Black Metal
◾Doom Metal (thx Kevin G)
◾Glam Rock
◾Gothic Metal (fits here Sam DeRenzis – thx)
◾Grind Core
◾Hair Metal
◾Hard Rock
◾Math Metal (cheers Kevin)
◾Math Rock (thx Ran’dom Haug)
◾Metal Core (thx Ran’dom Haug)
◾Noise Rock (genre – Japanoise – thx Dominik Landahl)
◾Jam Bands
◾Post Punk (thx Ben Vee Bedlamite)
◾Prog-Rock/Art Rock
◾Progressive Metal (thx Ran’dom Haug)
◾Rock & Roll
◾Rockabilly (it’s here Mark Murdock!)
◾Roots Rock
◾Southern Rock
◾Spazzcore (thx Haug)
◾Stoner Metal (duuuude)
◾Technical Death Metal (cheers Pierre)
◾Time Lord Rock (Trock) ~ (thanks to ‘Melia G)
◾Trash Metal (thanks to Pierre A)

•Singer/Songwriter ◾Alternative Folk
◾Contemporary Folk
◾Contemporary Singer/Songwriter
◾Indie Folk (with thanks to Andrew Barrett)
◾Love Song (Chanson – merci Marcel Borchert)
◾New Acoustic
◾Traditional Folk

•Soundtrack ◾Foreign Cinema
◾Movie Soundtrack (thanks Julien)
◾Original Score
◾TV Soundtrack

•Spoken Word
•Tex-Mex / Tejano (with thx to Israel Lopez) ◾Chicano
◾Conjunto Progressive
◾New Mex

•Vocal ◾A cappella (with kudos to Sheldon Reynolds)
◾Barbershop (with thx to Kelly Chism)
◾Doo-*** (with thx to Bradley Thompson)
◾Gregorian Chant (hat tip to Deborah Knight-Nikifortchuk)
◾Traditional Pop
◾Vocal Jazz
◾Vocal Pop

•World ◾Africa
◾Calypso (thx Gerald John)
◾Carnatic (Karnataka Sanghetha – thx Abhijith)
◾Celtic Folk
◾Contemporary Celtic
◾Coupé-décalé (thx Samy) – Congo
◾Dangdut (thank you Achmad Ivanny)
◾Drinking Songs
◾Drone (with thx to Robert Conrod)
◾Hindustani (thank you Abhijith)
◾Indian Ghazal (thank you Gitika Thakur)
◾Indian Pop
◾Japanese Pop
◾Mbalax (thank you Samy) – Senegal
◾Middle East
◾North America
◾Ode (thank you Sheldon Reynolds)
◾Piphat (cheers Samy B) – Thailand
◾Soca (thx Gerald John)
◾South Africa
◾South America
◾Traditional Celtic
Just Melz Dec 2014
Pop another two down
Take a good look around
No one saw the
The tears forming
I hold them back
As I wait for two more to kick in
Pop as many as I need to take
I need to be numb
I lie
Say the tears are *fake

I cry
Deny I feel anything
Don't look at me
Now I can't breathe
Must be anxiety
Pop another three
Pretty little pills
Take this pain away from me
Without you
I feel the truth
I'm feeling used
Emotionally consumed
Pop a few more
Starting to pass out
On the bathroom floor
You were my cure
Now I'm disease ridden
I'll never be pure
But these pills keep the tears hidden
Popping all these pills
At least my story's already been written
Kayla Nov 2017
He's got this thing he does.
This thing with his tongue.
It goes a tick tock tick.
Over and over like a broken record.
But what can I say he is my best friend.
But annoying as hell

A tick tock tick.

He's got this thing he does.
This thing with his fingers.
It goes a snap snap snap.
Over and over like the spider man movies.
And hey I ain't dissing the Spider-Man movies.
But come on keep peter perked the same person people.
But what can I say this boy Is my best friend.
But annoying as hell but not so annoying anymore.

A tick tock tick.
A snap snap snap.

He's got this thing he does.
This thing with his mouth.
It goes a pop pop pop.
Over and over like a bubble popping.
But what can I say he's my best friend.
But maybe I want more.

Tick tock tick.
A snap snap snap.
Pop pop pop.

Is it hard to say that maybe the
Tick tock tick
Isn't as bad anymore

A snap snap snap.
Pop pop pop.

Is it even harder to say maybe the
Snap snap snap
Isn't annoying anymore.

Pop pop pop.

Is it hardest off all to say maybe the
Pop pop pop
Is what pulled the last straw.

Maybe my best friend is perfect the way he is.
Maybe I love him more than my best friend.

Tick tock tick.
A snap snap snap.
Pop pop pop.

He doesn't want what I want.
He loves me in a different way.
He loves me as a friend.

Tick tock tick.
A snap snap snap.
Pop pop pop.
Dorothy A May 2016
She remembered it well. Ben made no bones about it, as he told his little sister, "You want to make something of your life, you got to get out of here and don't look back."  And he did just that, saying his goodbyes to her as he embarked off into the army.

There's a whole other world out there than just Jasper Island

How terrifying of a concept that was to Rachel back then. Ben was almost three years older, and without him it was just her and Pop . Jasper Island was all she knew, and at the age of sixteen that was a terrifying concept to a shy girl who had been sheltered her whole life.

Rachel envied Ben. Between the two of him, he was the only one who really remembered their mother. She was close to three-years-old when her mother left this earth. Ben was six. Her recollections of her dear mother were like vapors, like dreams that had lost most of their definition.

There was only one time she really could envision her mother correctly. She could just faintly recall her mother hanging up sheets outside, and they were blowing in the wind like sails, matching her mother's windblown skirt. Rachel was giggling as her mother tried to shoo her out from getting caught up in those magical sheets. She could still remember the beauty of her mother as she snuggled up against her, her mother catching up to her impish daughter as she twirled up in one of the sheets like a girl trying to play dress up. Her mother's skirt smelled like a soft perfume mixed with the sea.

Everywhere, as a child, Rachel was surrounded by sea. It made her dreary home pleasant after she lost her mom. The sea was a constant friend. With its mystery and its beauty, the sea gave her a right to dream of what lay beyond it. Ben was right. She needed to get out from under her little, protective shell. She would read Ben's letters that came  Germany, where he was stationed, and would dream of being there, herself.

Pop never mentioned Ben, again, like he didn't exist. Her father was a distant man, a fisherman who never had much for conversation or desire for closeness. Rachel was used to his distance, for that was her norm. But as she grew up, she realized he was bitter when he lost her mother. Rachel's aunt, Roberta, her father's sister, clued her in on his former life before marriage. She told Rachel, "Your father never was a man to show his emotions. He shied away from people and would rather tinker around in his tool shed or be out on his boat. I sometimes don't know what your mother saw in him, for she was quite a social gal."

Rachel saw herself more in her distant father, more than she cared to see. She was artistic, and felt more at home with a paintbrush than with anything else. She would paint pictures of anything--the quaint homes around where she lived, the woods and nature, and especially anything  to do with the sea.

Everyone told her she had talent. She won a talent contest in her school, though the pool of artsy students was small. Her island school was about three times the size of a one room schoolhouse, and it was quite easy for her to shine there. Was she really that talented? Many of her teachers saw and encouraged her abilities. They  wanted her to do something with her gift, and surely not to waste it. Everyone said so--except her pop. He never took much notice.

Ben was right. Frightened as she was, Rachel decided to try to make it on the mainland. It just became too irresistible of a notion. She promised her father, "I'll write to, Pop". He didn't even face her as she was saying goodbye, so she repeated, "Pop...I am going to write, will keep in touch".

"Don't bother", he simple replied. He wouldn't even look at her, but buried his nose into his newspaper.

Eight years later, on Jasper Island, Rachel stood before the home she grew up in. Those words still stung.

Don't bother

Pop had died. Aunt Roberta was the one to inform her, and she wasn't able to get back in time before the funeral. It was a small one--you could count the attendees on one hand--but her pop probably wouldn't have cared either way.  Rachel felt numb about it all. How should she feel? She knew she should grieve for her father, but the tears didn't come. He was such a hard man to know.

It would be nearly half a year before she returned to Jasper Island. She was living in Europe at the time, and she had moderate success in living off her art.  It was enough of an experience in which she could support herself. She first saw her brother in Germany then eventually went to Rome, to Paris and to London, working her way through as she traveled. Eventually, she stayed in London and became an art teacher. But now here she was again on Jasper Island.

She looked upon her hold house for the longest time. It looked so different. There were new shutters, a new coat of paint, and it didn't seem right with the backdrop of the sea. The house was yellow and the plastic pink flamingos were an eyesore to her. New residents occupied the house, and it just didn't seem right or real. Though she had no claim on it anymore, it still was her home. Now it was sold off soon after her pop died. She never even got a chance to stand inside for one last time, to peer into her old room or sit upon the back porch and bask at the beauty of the sea.

She tried not to appear too nosy, as she looked out back. Clothes were hanging up on the line, blowing in the breeze, and she thought of the faint memory of her mischief with her mother so long ago.      

Rachel didn't dare to knock on the door. Perhaps, she knew the people inside. Everyone knew everyone on that island. If she did know them, she didn't really want to know the details. She was the intruder, after all. Or was it the other way around?  

She made her way around and marveled how time seemed to catch up with her island home. There was a new movie theater in place of the beat up one that she knew as a child. The playground by the school looked so much better it wasn't filled with children. Hardly a soul was there, like all the children had grown up, or something.  

Aunt Roberta was her only real link to her old home now. The few friends she had left a long time ago, just like her. Her mom's people vacated the island long before she ever met them. Aunt Roberta was still there to receive her, though. She had something special for her.  Gathering up two shoe boxes, she handed them to her niece. Rachel wondered what what the contents were, and she couldn't believe her eyes.All the letters she promised to write to her pop were all in there in those two boxes.

"I found them," Aunt Roberta said, amazed herself, "after cleaning out my brother's closets. He kept them all, it seems."

Rachel promised that she would write home, and she did. And it was true--her pop saved every single letter or postcard she ever sent him.  The envelopes were all opened up, so he obviously looked at them. She was amazed that he didn't  throw them away or burn them.  Never once, did he write her back, and Rachel thought he had completely dismissed them and disowned her.

Holding those envelopes and postcards in her hands was like finding some rare and valuable artifacts, and now the tears would come. For the first time in quite some time, Rachel felt something when it came to her distant father. It was everything rolled into one--her island home, her mother, her brother, her father, her sense of self--and she just wept freely as her aunt held her tight and comforted her.

Rachel never cared about the money. Her pop never made a will. He never owned much, but Aunt Roberta would make sure she was fair about the money. Rachel would have traded every cent of it if only she was to see her father one last time. She wanted to come back sooner, but she feared she would not be welcome, that the door would be slammed in her face. Now her only way to see her father was at the cemetery were generations of fellow island dwellers met their resting place.

At the grave, her parents were buried side by side, and the sea was their backdrop. It was just as her father would have wanted it. Rachel cleared away a few weeds, and she placed a handful of wildflowers at her mother's grave. "Hi, mamma", she said out loud. "I miss you and wish I could you could be here, again. I see you in my mind, and you are that young, delightful mother I still think of. " The sound of the breezes, and the birds constant communication of chirping, was a calming response.

She then addressed her father's grave, "Pop", she started to say, "Thanks for keeping those letters. I know it was hard for you now. We all left you, didn't we? Mamma,"

Rachel looked out into the sea. The sun was shining well, and it was like the waters were filled with diamonds. That enchanting sea--that is what her father cherished the most. He taught her how to swim there, not to be afraid of the waters but to respect the strength they held. He protected her from feeling so small and scared by it. He taught her about what was in the sea and how to fish from it. She smiled and thought of how she would have rather collected pretty seashells than to handle a slimy fish . He reaped so many things from the sea, and she knew he belonged to it. She closed her eyes and tried to think of such moments between her father.

Before she left, she held an unopened letter in her hand and said, "Pop, I got really, really sad looking at all those letters, especially because I can't write to you anymore. I'm just amazed you have them. I hope you read them, and if you did, I hoped you knew I really loved you". She smiled at what her dad would probably think as silly sentiment. He probably was rolling in his grave right now, squirming from all this mushy stuff. But at least now, she could tell him she loved him.

Rachel put her hand on his tombstone and stroked its rough exterior. She added, "Well, then I thought--who is to say I can't write? So I did. I got a letter for you,Pop, and I'm going to read it to you, now. Hope your listening."

She didn't know when she would come back for another visit to Jasper Island, but she knew she would return. Unlike Ben, she would not go way and never look back . How could she deny it as her home? She opened the letter, cleared her throat, and read it out loud, "Dear Pop, I hope you are at peace. I hope you are proud of me and that you hear me now. Take care of Mamma, and I'll see you on the other side." After she stopped, the tears came again, rolling down her check. She closed up the letter, put it on her father's tombstone and laid a rock on it to anchor it well. Eventually, the elements would get to it--the sun, the rain, the changing seasonal forces--but for now it was in good shape,

As the ferry made it's way from Jasper Island, the land became smaller and smaller, until it was just a speck in her view. But once it was the whole world to her, not just a destination to visit. Nevertheless, it wasn't some insignificant blip on the many maps of the world. It would always beckon her. Rachel could never forget Jasper Island.
Jordan Frances Dec 2014
For my Pop Pop
I want to see you.
Even in your frailty
As your bones shake in the gentle wind like chimes
I want to be close to you.
Your flesh is nearly transparent
The veins in your face and the thinning of your silver hair
Make you look much older than the 71 years
That have left rings on your skin.
Some say you were a poor father
And an even poorer husband.
You never got along with my aunt
Your daughter
Your beam of light shining through the sidewalk cracks
And she began to shine for other people
But her brightness reflected off of ice
And I know her coldness is not merely human nature.
Pop Pop, why were you always so kind
To my sister and me?
It's like we thawed your hardened spirit
So we could see the softness lying underneath.
Funny how it's just natural
For a three year-old and a newborn to make a grown man crumble.
I don't want to think about the fact that you may never walk again
Because your disease can never steal where we've been
Although, perhaps mundane
Steak-and-Shake, our rented condo,
And plenty of barbecue spare rib joints later
All meant the world to me.
I wish I could say something other than
The last time I saw you was on my sixteenth birthday.
It's been over a year since you stayed in the Sunshine State
And I traveled home to my garden
Pop Pop, it was hard as the years went by
The only way we got to know you was through $20 gift certificates
And the static on the other end of the telephone
On birthdays and holidays.
I wish I had called you more
Because now it's hard for you to speak.
Daddy said you had a shotgun subtlety when you spoke
"How bout them Phillies?"
"Oh....the cancer spread."
"Have you been to a game in a while?"
Pop pop, now I'm the one who's shotgun subtle
"How's the hospital food?"
I'm scared I won't get to see you
"How are you feeling?"
I'm scared you won't get better
I love you, Pop.
*I'm scared.
ln Jul 2017
pop the xanax
before dawn, they will turn their backs
pop the xanax
both hands behind your head, standing on the edge of the decks
pop the xanax
maybe if you try you'll figure out all the hacks
pop the xanax
what else tonight, dewars or shots of jacks
pop the xanax
don't keep telling me what my brain lacks
pop the xanax
what does it feels like to have dosages on max
pop the xanax
do you still try to forget, inhaling cigarette smoke by the packs
pop the xanax
you don't understand mother, my thoughts come from a buy one free one off the racks
pop the xanax
does it take your mind off everything, all that ***?
pop the xanax
my sadness shows up on time, always reminding that there's tax
pop the xanax
i tried to light up a candle to cast away the darkness but then it started to burn, all that wax

just pop the ******* xanax
Molly Pendleton Aug 2011
“God!” She snap at me
Hair flying like mad as she whipped around
“Why do you always pop your knuckles?”
Her green eyes would be blazing as she’d rant
“You know it drives me nuts yet every day”
Her mouth would twist with frustration
“Without fail you pop them! Why?”
I don’t think she was ever expecting my response
“Because, love,”
“If didn’t you’d never even look at me”
“And I wouldn’t get to see that pretty face”
Jenni Littzi May 2018
Permanently looking for peace
Temporary couldn’t last a week
Sincerely, I didn’t even have to think
I guess in the moment I was weak

Pop, pop, sip, further you slip
Pop, pop, sip, further you slip

Couldn’t tell me any different
Made up my mind in an instant
Put my thoughts to the distance
Made sure there was no mentioning it

Pop, pop, sip, further you slip
Pop, pop, sip, further you slip

If I begged for forgiveness
Would I get other chances
Now it’s only ***** glances
But I had to take my stance

Pop, pop, sip, further you slip
Pop, pop, sip, further you slip

Pop, pop, sip, further you slip
Pop, pop, sip, further you slip
Snap, crackle, pop, *******, maybe one day our way of life will match up, maybe someday you’ll shake the sad and sick way you sound with your face buried in the ground, snap crackle and pop, snap, crackle and pop.
Snap, like snap dragon, like fire breathing flower beating pollen from bee stings, letting you insert your syringe in, snap, my neck to keep me stagnate, snap your tongue as I walk but, cackle and cat call, call me something derogative, like *****, snap, my negotiative nature has me nearly kneeling on my knees screaming at the stars, snap, because I’m snapping out of this phase, faking it until I’ve made it am I manly enough yet? Binding my breast, walking with my legs apart holding inside the pains of a broken heart until it leaks from my pores, shorter hair and it’ll seem like I don’t have a care in the world, snap crackle pop *******, maybe one day your say won’t matter, maybe someday I’ll shake off the need to impress you when all you’ve done is oppress me. Impressively I’m openly opinionated still, despite your
Crackle, like cackle, like a catapult of insults, like injury that has no bruises, like being lost and found and the sound of your voice, is crackling. Caressing my nape with knives, making the demons inside harder and harder to hide from when they hide inside your hide, your skin, which you stick to me like crackle, snap crackle pop *******, maybe one day your opinions will be shattered by someone who’s louder. Maybe someday someone will smother your power. Maybe someday your soap box will be lit on fire. Snap, crackle, pop.
Pop, like gun shots, like self-entitled macho misters, mysteriously gliding into plain sight, entitling themselves heros where the title terrorist is more fitting, letting themselves let loose and losing themselves in the blood bath created by a society which values machismo over women saying “no” pop, like people placing bets on how many lip stick rings they can get around their *****, pop, like men making markers holding us down with words which pop our ear drums and drum us silent, like silently held hand guns hidden in plain sight, like women lined up to be killed where men should be lined up to learn, where girls are hurled under the bus because our skirts are too short and our voices too shrill, where we **** ambition that grows like snap, like a snap dragon, a fire breathing flower found beautiful but dangerous, like crackle, the cackle of your cat calls and like pop, like gun shots sounding into the streets, like the silence of the women we never knew we needed to heed. Snap, crackle, pop. Stop, holding your tongue and stay your hand, take a silent stand.
Snap crackle and pop *******, because today I can’t afford to let your words matter.
John May 2012
I like all different kinds of music. As cliche as it sounds, it's true. I could never understand how people say that their favorite genre of music is just "rock" or plain "rap". Single syllables, especially when applied to musical preference, tend to make my muscles tighten up. It's just too constrictive for me. I like words/genres like "Alternative Jazz" or "Riot Grrrl". "******* Electro" and "Psychedelic/Soul". The words themselves just sound more appealing. Seriously, when will you ever hear the words "psychedelic" and "soul" in the same breath? Let alone the same connected phrase with a slash between them?

By far though, my favorite genre of music has to be "Dream Pop". I love the music. With all it's soothing, relaxing, hazy beats and lovely, distorted vocals but that isn't the real reason I call it my favorite. The reason I do is the words "Dream" and "Pop". The two words together bring about such vibrant imagery for me. Dreams, to me, mean a lot. I'll have a really exciting one and won't be able to shake the atmosphere of them for the entire day afterward. After a particularly scary one, I usually won't be able to get rid of that sense of doom and danger that always comes along with a horrifying nightmare. It's a bless and a curse but there's nothing like it. Especially for me.

And then there's the word "pop". Also a very image-inspiring word. You can pop a pimple. You can pop a bubble. You can eat an ice pop(sicle). You can say hello to your Pops. Pop, pop, pop. It's a very entertaining word. Short but sweet.

Put the two words together and you have one highly interesting phrase. "Dream Pop". It's so soothing and lovely. I really can't imagine a better combination of words.
Dre Feb 2011
Can’t fathom what real feels like

Steadily numb

Mind racing

Only time I feel centered is when I take the cotton out the bottle

Pop 1

Pop 2

Pop 3

Now all I see is my fantasies coming to fruition

All I know is the feeling

I could careless about the side affects

An empty medicine cabinet still can’t fill my heart like you could

I am swirling downward when I think of your absence

I soar up when I get my uppers

Don’t know which is reality because I see you in my dreams

I do this so I don’t wake up

So, my reality is what I choose it to be

Pop 1

Pop 2

Pop 3

Pop 4

Pop 5

Pop 6

Pop 7

Pop 8

Pop 9

Pop 10

Will you ever return or do I have to overdose on my fantasies?
anastasiad Dec 2016
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Maria Rodriguez Nov 2013
Pop the top,
take a drink.

Sit back, relax,
close your eyes.
All is well.

Pop the top,
take a drink.

Let your drink
slide down your throat
to wash away your day.

Pop the top,
take a drink.

Just one more.
It doesn't matter.
Not with a drink in your hand.

Pop the top,
take a drink.

One last drink.
Just one more.
Always one more.

Pop the top,
take a good look.

Is this what I've become?
Always needing one more,
taking one more drink
to numb the pain.

Pop the top,
pour it down the drain.

One more drink
will make me numb,
but it won't change a thing.

Pop the top.

Close your eyes,
take a breath.

It's gonna be alright.
It's gonna be ok.

Let it out.

Pop the top,
not on a bottle,
but on your emotions.

Pop the top,
let it out.

Let the memories,
be washed away,
with one last good-bye.

Pop the top,
put it down,
walk away.
Paul Hardwick Sep 2015
Pop words
Pop play
Pop was
Pop and go
Pop in
Pop out
Pop far out man
POP aRt if you do not think that right just ask Andy Warhol
Pop dead
Pop is still alive now just watch ads on TV
Pop down the shops
Pop in a pin, on the internet

with love my

P O P  P ets
True but the poem above is still surreal

;-)   P@ul.
jonathan valonis Jun 2010
Pop, Pop pop, Pop, Pop, Pop pop, Pop,
Boom, Boom boom, Bfff, Boom, Boom boom, Bfff,
Shsh, Shsh Shsh, Ffwka ffwka ffwka,
Five, Four, Three, Two, Oooooonnnnnneeeee,
Boomdth, Boomdth, Boomdth, Chwochit, Chwochit, Chwochit,
Boomdth, Boomdth, Boomdth, Chwochit, Chwochit, Chwochit,
Chwochit, Chwochit, Chwoooooochhhhhhhhitttttt,
Now get down, I get down, Now get down, I get down,
Bwahhwow, Bwahhwow, Bwahhwow, Bwahhwow, Bwahhhhhhhhh,
Vooooooooo Booom, Dtdtdtdtdtdtdtdtdtdtdt, Boff, Da, Dede,
Dtdtdtdtdtdtdtdtdtdtdt, Boff, Da, Dede, Dtdtdtdtdtdtdtdtdtdtdt, Boff, Da, Dede, Dtdtdtdtdtdtdtdtdtdtdt, Uuuuuuhwaaaaaaaa
Kaylee Sep 2017
Pop it and done
      It's almost gone

Pop it and done
      What's left for salvation

Pop it and done
      No longer innocent like a fawn

Pop it and done
      Gaining some attention

Pop it and done
      Don't know how to function

Pop it and done
      No where left to run

Pop it and done
      Left with no diction

Pop it and done
      Forever with no one
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
sooner or later you get the grips of cherry-pop nudes
imagery instilled in pop music -
just because your heart
suddenly turns into
a candy-floss cloud
with a hard bit in between
the fluffy-puff - and
you'll realise your teenage idol
got laid by a cougar 40 year old:
and, h'eh, with your reality displaced
you'll be left with a choice of jugglers -
they're only entertainers,
and they have their expiry date;
i just don't see this age
of impeding concerns as the
generation that was bothered about
displacing care for politicians
with a shortened high of
being attentive to entertainers -
back when the entertainer was
a hobo, a gypsy traveller...
oh ****, art, mattered back then...
yeah, you're in my bedroom,
i'm not going anywhere,
i live in times of accepted thieving,
and exchanging music
records for the third mobile phone:
you could call it the
technological Paraolympics -
i've got legs built on stilts and
they're shock-absorbing titanium,
ever heard that Pistorius joke?
me neither... oh right: the righteousness
of the c.c.t.v. god and curbing the
total potential of human freedom?
sign me up to believe in a theocracy
in the mouth of man... comrade numero
uno! moi! omni non est uno!
          but ask a 50 year old listening
to pop music if it doesn't feel like
some sort of the 50 available shades
of paedophilia and marketing...
of the 50 asked, 49 would lie...
it's a different statement of youth...
not young punk...
      young pop: mostly feminine appellation:
because money was invented for women:
primarily. get the stranger to do the plumbing,
dream big, make a man elaborate on
a tree-house... turn into a Medusa in
social-shambles situations... dragon-lady
with patch-up *** later... or not so later...
insomnia's grand harvest of suicides...
well... within grounding of a stereotype:
money ended tribalism...
            not a negative... but it was primarily
invented by men to curate for woman's needs:
       male equivalents of billionaires-easy-buck,
    still that dream of the Hawaiian horizon
and the kiss - men? sure, shopaholics
with a mid-life crisis - women?
           centipedes on speed -
          40 pairs of shoes but only two legs.
if possible... pyjamas... a morning dress,
and afternoon dress, and evening dress...
a special occasion dress...
                      and comparably floral?
   one colour, one season, one sun,
    one repeated temperament to bloom.
well... who would have thought that
pop music was a bit like paedophilia...
god, i love shoving this fake guilt into the air...
but then again, pop has changed since
the days when someone wrote high fidelity
and ascribed the denotative status of the
13th floor elevators as akin to present-day
pop; poets, gangsters and chefs...
                   bodies and colours
in shadowy disguises: of the people from whom
dreams are born.
John Destalo Jan 2019
she is gangly. a thousand skinny legs extended. a thousand skinny
minds.  wrapping. entangling me. roots.  digging into the side of a
mountain. she is reaching.  grasping for me.  gasping birthing
breathing demons.  pain.  this mysterious force.
emanating.  has no place.  has no source.  it is the first.
disconnection.  it is memory.

without diagnosis. it does not exist. my head rattles.  the rocks
are loose again. colliding with my skull.  we are pulled apart.  our
interactions have no meaning.  I pop.

pop pink.  pop blue.  pop white.  she disappears.  and everything
floats.  I am bottomless. dancing in deep water.  moving in slow
motion. to nowhere. in particular.


a floor appears.  a ceiling.  four walls.  moving. closer and closer.  I
have a bottom. I have a top.  I have sides.  squeezing me.  I pop

pop 2x pink. pop 2x blue. pop 2x white. she dissolves.  in seconds.
no.  I dissolve. no.  everything that is not me dissolves.  I must be
sleeping in wonderful watery confusion. dreaming in wet white silky slides.


she returns.  more powerful. pure energy. one ******* god.
a thousand times a thousand legs. bee bees of light. crossing each
other. I am the midst.  squeezed. feeling the full extent.
of paaaaain. an explosion. no. an implosion. of the sun. so I pop more

pop 3x pink. pop 3x blue. pop 3x white…
Paul Hardwick Apr 2015
Pop* in pop art
just poppin up the shops
pop in my mums place
just pops in
as I am near your place
pop pills
I am feeling
I am dripping
I am in love
now just poping off.
Surreal POP art.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
i never used to understand why people
hid their pop preferences like
they might hide a **** room...
or like: the toilet paper ran out,
so i jumped into the shower story;
what's with pop music in older people
and getting the embarrassment sticker
that says: HI, MY NAME IS JEFF
nostalgic culmination? death growl
dark metal: the frustration apparent throughout:
frustrated amateur singers with their
strained veiny necks... see that aorta?
opera singers? are they even opening
their mouths, or is this opera meets Roy Orbison?
and by god, that's the case, people are
ashamed to actually acknowledge their
pop preferences... no wonder Patrick
Bateman is fuelled by it...
it's very much like that... pop's the foundation
in you actually liking music...
shame i love music more than women:
keeps my sanity... 2 months apart
and you can't hear a vacuum cleaner,
maybe once a week... maybe...
then the radio starts playing some vintage Roxette...
Abba who? that's for those aged
40 and above... Roxette is my generation's equivalent.
Roxette's masterpiece? Joyride:
the entire album, yes, you'll listen to
this album like some prog rock feast:
          Joyride                 (      :     + italics
                                    is the same as bold:
          double emphasis                 )
*****, you will! Roxette's Joyride is the
epitome of pop!
(Me) pop-pop since the day we first met you always informed me everything would be ok. From your distinct whistle,your classic demeanor and loving charm. You were the richest definition of a man, a father, grandfather and a husband. But above all you were a protector.
As we sat in silence, you and I and I told you I would try to stay strong through this journey, but it would be hard not to cry. I felt I was losing my protection. No words were spoken , you asleep and me in tears. I knew my heart was breaking because my soldier will no longer be here.
( whispers ) pop-pop I need to know it will be ok, I still need that protection.
(Pop-pop)  please don't cry because I am gone. Sing because I am free. Remember now I can be happy. A soldier to you I will always be. My child , I will still protect you for God has given me these wings.
Yes I had to leave but not with out a fight. I lived the way I should during my 87 years of life. Now wipe those tears so you can see I am at peace. I have to go and continue my journey to heaven where my wife has built a new home.
So remember even though I left you . Neither one of us will be alone .  
In memory of  my pop-pop DAVID E EVANS
Sept 30,1925 - Sept 06, 2012
Amanda Kay Hill Jan 2017
Oh lilly pop you
Taste so good
Lilly pop
Lilly pop
Oh Lilly pop you
have a lot of colors
In a circle Lilly pop
I enjoy eating you
Lilly pop
©  Amanda Kay Hill
Pop pop.
Gunned down.
Hands up.
On the ground.

I never seen a prison cell
Accept my own house.
‘cause as soon as I step out side
police come out.

I never seen a prison cell
accept my own mind
As soon as we have some fun
They creep up from behind.

Pop pop.
Gunned down.
Hands up.
On the ground.

I did an extra 7 years
Just to make sure they don’t mess with me.
But the color of my skin
aint a match for my master’s degree.

I make a lot of money
and I’ve never sold D.
But I know they gunna
find a reason eventually.

Pop pop.
Gunned down.
Hands up.
On the ground.

They never have to put the cuffs on me
for me to be in jail.
because i’ve seen it so many times,
the memories are my cell.

Pop pop
A response to the "black lives matter" protests.
Nicholas Kurtz May 2014
Scottie spot a thot
Scottie spot the thot
Taking multiple shots
Scotty hopped right off his stool
Up to the thot he walked
Hoping she didn't find him
A fool
He said hey thot
From across the bar I spot
Such a **** fine thot
Wouldn't you hop on my ****
Now the thot looked restless
What a decision?
This might be the first time the thot
Needless too say it wasn't long
Before the thot hopped on
Scottie's ****
Scottie thought
Man after this thot
I might need a penicillin shot
Oh no, Scottie watch!!!
Here comes the thot's
Big pop
Threatening to give Scottie,
A pop pop

Scottie prayed to god
He wouldn't see no cops
Especially since before he
Made a stop at the ******* spot

And especially not for some

We all know Scottie
For a thot he's never fought
So he hopped off his stool and
Ran out of the club
He ain't no nub!
Scottie didn't get popped for no
Silly thot
And so is the story
Of Scottie spot the thot
Who took multiple shots
Hopped on Scottie's ****
And called on her
Big pop
Who almost gave Scottie
A pop pop
Scottie went to the clinic
To get a shot
And thought twice
The next time he spot a thot
Taking multiple shots
This is just a funny poem, I'm sorry Dr. Seuss. Much kudos to Scottie Watson and Khali Davis who inspired this!
I love you guys.
Ellyl Oct 2014
P- op

O- utstanding

P-  ops in your mouth

C- covered in salt

O-  usome

R- eal good

N- ice and tasty

                                                               ­   "The wind rustles the forget-me-nots
                                                                ­      In the many balcony flower boxes
                                                           ­                       And so the shrieks of foxes
                                                                ­                               lose their distance."

She’s inside,
finding her bearings.
Fiddling her earrings
******* cardamom pods
And smoking licorice black cigarettes
Her lips faintly popping as the smoke escapes,

                                                       ­   Pop,

And reflecting how she’s been
As lucky as lavender isn’t.

                                                         ­         "the wind sharpens the beach dunes
                                                           ­                    flutters my tangerine towel,"

                                                      Po­p, pop,

                                                           ­        "fills my little girl's glitter-gel shoes"


                                                    ­      Pop

She rubs it out before she sets it down,
sharpening her eraser.
Settling her glass
no chaser.

Her cigarette smokes on its own in the ashtray
a straight grey line caught in the breezes
from the door frame and under the floorboards,
like a seismograph recording of a dancer’s hips
or like any sound man could ever consider making,
escaping up to heaven from the tip of Babel.

She takes back her black ***
Before any more paper evaporates.

                                                         Pop, pop

Her poems are great shipping tanker oil spills
of vowels,
hoping the reader feels their lips
mouthing kisses along with it.

                                                            ­  Pop

                                                          ­                           "no one ever really tastes
                                                                ­                          one another on theirs,
                                                                ­                                                or saliva,
                                                         ­                                                       so weak
                                                            ­                                     weak as the smell
                                                                ­                                  of potent *****."

Now the wind's at the window,
disturbing a spider
abseiling slowly
and inevitably
as falling snow

                                                           ­    Pop

into the ashtray.
A lifetime of weary acceptance of tragedy.

                                                      ­       -Stub-
Playing with page placement, I wanted people to imagine there was a line of cigarette smoke running straight up it's center, or a spider abseiling down on a thread, separating the real from the poem.
Alexis G May 2018

My hands are out of control,
my mouth is going POP-PPP!
Anxiety is swallowing me whole,
and my mind is a hole I’m trapped in.

You’re just doing that.
You’re copying, mimicking, mocking.
Nothing is wrong with you.
No, no, no. Nothing.

I can’t tell anyone but two.
I’m alone and scared and shaking.
Anxiety is making it (POP) worse.
My hands are flying and I’m crying,
and I know I’ll go and research.

Tics can be verbal or physical.
POP, Wax, arms and wrists, clap, shake. Pain.
Words like anxiety, chronic, syndrome, POP out at me.
Symptoms call me down to two tic disorders.
And until my parents belive me, I’m falling, falling, falling,
Falling into anxiety’s cold grasp.

TussyLambz Jul 2018
Leaning back, she breaks me off
Pop, pop, pop like bubble gum
I'm all up in her call no gods
I **** in figures **** the law
******* right we work that flame
It's so delicious feel no pain
I solve the puzzle leave 'em stained
My intention slide in lane
I get it got it so good
Had me wishing she would of misunderstood  
The kiss of the death, girl, bid with your life  
If price is right I might hit twice, uh
I fit it a bit of submitted
I live it, I hit it, we **** it
I bit it and split it, stop
Pop, pop, pop, pop - everything drops...
I cannot watch as she cook up my fix  
All on the top and she taking the ****  
As the life force mix  
Like the right horse quick
Like a white source brick
Like I pipe more wicked than the rest of em'  
Freak at the peak see we speak in tongues  
Weak at the knees, yeah, we really wanna ***  
Tweaking from hammer drums
Handle in sums- rumpa *** *** - she is my drug  
I be the plug i flow cold
I beat it up she want a choke hold  
Slow mo freak her up blow load  
Speakers go so low  
Take it all in deep breaths, that's good
Forbidden fruit I forgot the truth
Like I feel into route  
Cuz she really smooth and
She really do it
My mind i might lose it
Matter of time
But I can't abuse it..
listen here:

— The End —