"songwriter" poems
From the BBC today,
Excerpt
Why does Taylor Swift write so many one-note melodies?
"It's easy to get distracted by her celebrity, but Taylor Swift is a once-in-a-generation songwriter. From the very beginning, she's displayed a knack for melody and storytelling that most artists never master.
Take, for example, her first US number one, OUR SONG
Written for a high school talent show, it's a fairly typical tale of teenage romance until the final lines: "I grabbed a pen / And an old napkin / And I wrote down our song."
That's smart, self-assured songwriting for someone who wasn't old enough to vote. Notably, the lyrics insert the musician directly into the narrative - something she developed into a tried and tested trope.
But Our Song also establishes another of Taylor's trademarks: The one-note melody.
Excerpt
Repetitive melodies that centre around a single note are part of that appeal. They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech.
"They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech."
"They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech."
"They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech."
Rebuttal
Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics. They can relate to your song but if they cannot sing it themselves putting themselves in the 'first-person perspective narrative' they cannot feel as-if they have BECOME the artist and are living that moment as they remember it. Taylor Swift sings about teenage love and angst something EVERYONE ON EARTH understands.
ALL POETRY BEGAN AS RHYME IN SONG.
Cadences are singing statements that confer a discipline and unity.
Song acts as a catharsis. The artist shares their pain in a way that is universally understood. If you want to sell a rock, literally a pebble, you will not sell it if it doesn't look like a rock. If it doesn't do what rocks do. If it is not what people remember a rock to be like. Nor will it sell if it is just like every other rock they have ever seen. It cannot convey an emotion unless it elicits emotion.
One cannot even begin to feel emotional if one cannot remember easily the past and that includes lyrics one has heard that evoked said emotional state.
It is horrifying to see HOW BADLY EVERYONE INSISTS that rhyme be obliterated in exchange for an intellectual or individual perspective NOT SHARED BY THE MAJORITY OF PEOPLE.
If you want to sell and make money you better start thinking about the 99% of people who are not geniuses.
If your sole goal in life is to attract a genius to give you a great job because of how, "smart," they perceive you to be then fine.
You are not an artist.
You are an employee.
"Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics."
"Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics."
"Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics."
Thrice Times Great. ⁻ᴴᵉʳᵐᵉˢ
BECOME
EVERYONE ON EARTH
ALL POETRY BEGAN AS RHYME IN SONG
HOW BADLY EVERYONE INSISTS
NOT SHARED BY THE MAJORITY OF PEOPLE
HOW BAD
artist?
or employee?
Feb 15, 2018
Feb 15, 2018 at 10:29 AM UTC
I'm a work of art, your protege.
You're my sculpture, my teacher.
I'm your troublemaker, your rebel.
You're my lover, my peacemaker.
I'm a poet, your songwriter.
You're my inspiration, my muse.
I'm a changer, a modifier of life.
You're my guide, my leader.
I was a hater, a freak.
You made me better,
An individual with a love for life and
A man of creativity.
You're the remover of hate,
And the replacer of love.
You saw me as I am,
As the person I was meant to be.
Piece by piece and step by step
You put back the parts of my broken self.
You didn't abandon me in need,
You didn't leave me when you saw the red flags,
You stayed,
You made me drop the anger and put up the surrender.
You took me in,
You loved me.
You made me see life in a way I never knew existed.
You love me now,
You'll love me always.
Forever till forever meets no end,
You're love knows no limits
And is meant to be eternal.
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 3:22 PM UTC
With each
CLICK
Our breath is held
Will he,won't he
Will he, won't he
The suspense is killing me
And....SHIT
Door left open still
Pestered by the plebeian chill
In this gay little coffee shop
Surrounded by the unrecognised talent of Brighton:sketch artist staring at me, writer on his laptop, songwriter etching vigorously with his pencil.
All of which aren't closing the door.
The eyes roll.
Labouring my body up, hammering my legs across the floor, turning the factory handle.
All is ask is for some carrot cake,filtrate water,polo jumpers, avocado salads,tiger bread, slimmer trousers, slipper sock , a toyger.
Click
And then images of Kim Jong un pass through my head.
If I ruled you'd all be dead
Firing squad for an open door,
Loud music on the train'll be no more.
Stop the screaming misbehaving brats
The rabble of Spanish students
All this PC stuff on the news, train seats filled with cans of *****
Suddenly
The artist strolls up
Let's down his cup.
Closes the door swiftly
And slips back in his chair
Oh, so there is a god.
I guess Jesus didn't lie.
Oct 21, 2017
Oct 21, 2017 at 12:15 PM UTC
Her smile can break
A lot of hearts
She's left a lot of hurting
But that hourglass
And that pretty as....er angel
She's already glad
You're flirting
If it won't last long
It's all okay
You can find another pasture
But for that much gain
It's worth some pain
So go ahead and ask her
Cause a perfect ten
In the eyes of men
Makes a sweet night to remember
And you can hope
She'll hit high notes
With such a pleasant timbre
That, that whole scene
Arranged perfectly
Will be a memory for the ages
Or with a microphone
You could make a song
To climb high on Billboard's pages
Oct 26, 2011
Oct 26, 2011 at 12:11 PM UTC
There is pressure in society
That judges how your looks should be
And when I hear a girl proclaim "I'm fat!"
As though there was something wrong with that,
Such thoughts, I tell you, just won't do
When the opposite is clearly true
Because with big girls there is more to love,
And they won't break with a playful shove.
And although I'm not one for body shaming,
And don't wish to sound like I'm complaining,
Thin girls simply lack the cellulite
To keep somebody warm at night,
Their bones protrude in awkward places
And they have gaunt, unhealthy faces
They regularly seem in a foul mood
(Which is probably caused caused by lack of food),
And you can't get anything to eat
Without them scowling at the treat,
That you, yourself, have chose to order,
While they dine on salad and water,
Until they scream "I've had enough!
You have no idea how tough
It is to keep this slender figure
And stop myself from getting bigger!"
As if it was somehow your fault
That they won't eat sugar or salt,
Or that they'll spend 3 hours at the gym
As a compromise for staying thin.
So while I'd love a girl however she looks
(As long as we like similar books,
And can talk for hours at a time,
Or not at all and still be fine)
There's very few (indeed, if any!
Although their numbers may be many),
Skinny girls I've ever met
That a big one hasn't beaten yet!
If you must lose weight I do implore
You know it's yourself you do it for
And while I must concede it doesn't matter,
To most if you're thinner or fatter,
No songwriter, I'll think you'll find
Wrote a song about a small behind
No artists brush strokes ever found
Joy in painting girls that were not round
And the best words found in poetry
Are about big girls it's plain to see
Like voluptuous, buxom, and well-rounded
With thin girls how would they have sounded?
Although I must- again- make haste to add
That no truly self-respecting lad
Would ever dream of judging you
By how you look, not what you do,
So if shedding pounds makes you feel great
Then go ahead and lose some weight,
But ignore what shallow fools may say,
As they'll just keep judging anyway,
Because the best people, you'll always find,
Will love you for what's in your mind.
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 7:43 PM UTC
An Open Letter to Really Important People
The Old Dime Box, Texas Statement
A Manifesto Made Manifest in Manifesting Manifestingness
We post this serious looking document
Bloated with long vocabulary words
Sodden with weak dependent clauses
Marshaled in numbered ranks, down, down they go
To the GossipNet all serious like
And everyone has to pay attention to us
Because it’s AN OPEN LETTER, y’know -
You may sign it if you’ve got letters behind your name
Signatories:
Apostle-Disciple Magic Dawn, DD., Non-Binary, Author of Green Polar Bears I Am, Co-Equal-Director of the Anti-Oppressionist Theatre Against the Occupation, Agent of the Revolution, Auteur, Guest on The Wheel of Fortune and Parent of Two AMAZING children of indeterminate Gender with Their AWESOME and AMAZING Life-Partner Sven-Marie.
Massive Ferguson, M.Ed., Poet, Rector of Admissions, The University of Where the Old Circuit City Use to Be
Poncy Tworbst, M.A., PUBLISHED Author, Seeker, Inspirational Singer-Songwriter, PUBLISHED
Heather-Mistee La’ Thwitte-Tworbst, Ph.D., Director of Library Resources at Saint Margaret ****** Homeschool Resource Authority Collective, Inc., Certified Ordained Consecrated Priest in The Worldwide Church of Me-ness and Pastor of the World-Famous Weddings ‘R’ Us Chapel of Rainbow Dreams in Magdalena, New Mexico
Lawrence Hall, HSG, Thinker of Thinky-Ness and, Like, Stuff, Endowed Chair he found at Goodwill, His Mark: X
(Sean Ian Johann Johnson, MBA, J.D., Chief Photocopier Operator at Donald Trump University and Fashion Editor at Gun, God, and Guts Magazine, was not able to sign today; he is sharing a cell with other White House staff and patiently awaiting The Day of Greatness.)
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 3:48 PM UTC
Lined paper,
Staff paper, actually.
Flipping through the blank pages,
Viewing hundreds of songs that have yet to be written.
Homesick for places never visited,
Longing for those never met,
The pen hits the paper,
Unleashing the madness.
And so it begins.
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 12:30 AM UTC
Barack Obama, first US President of African origin.
Langston Hughes, earliest innovators of then-new literary jazz
poetry.
Angela Davis, African American political activist, and author
Coretta Scott King, author, activist, and civil rights leader
Katherine Johnson, African-American mathematician
Anita Baker, African American singer-songwriter
Muhammed Ali, African American professional boxer and activist
Erykah Badu, African American singer-songwriter activist
Rosa Parks, the mother of the freedom movement and civil rights
Ida B Wells, African-American journalist and feminist
Colin Powell, statesman and retired four-star general in US Army
Al Sharpton, civil rights activist and Baptist minister
Nelson Mandela, South African anti-apartheid revolutionary
political leader
Dec 1, 2017
Dec 1, 2017 at 2:47 PM UTC
We are stardust, we are golden and we've got to get ourselves back to the garden.
Joni Mitchell
November 7, 1943: Happy 70th birthday, Joni Mitchell! The Canadian singer songwriter had polio as a child—the illness weakened her left hand, which made many traditional guitar fingerings difficult to execute. It led Mitchell to develop her own signature tunings.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 12:38 PM UTC
I am not an ordinary person.
I am no genius,
no artist,
and barely a poet.
I have no great life's work,
no opera,
no magnum opus;
but I'm no ordinary person.
There are no great lovers
waiting for my arrival
at the docks,
or morning my departure
as the ship sets sail.
No major sporting events
with crowds of fans cheering
and booing my every
success and failure.
Nobody takes pictures
of me or gawks at my pose.
Nor does anyone ask
for my signature
on their favorite
piece of paper,
which happens to be
stained by the ink
of my own words.
No one praises me
for my work,
or thinks I'm the best
at what I do,
whatever it is I do.
But I'm no ordinary person.
I have no son or
daughter to look up to me.
Parties aren't thrown
for me, and I am not
on the top of anyone's list,
not even the **** list
my enemies make.
I don't dance very well,
and I'm not a good singer,
songwriter,
musician,
or composer.
I'll probably never
be on TV or
in the movies,
no that's not
gonna be me.
But my life's work
is its happiness,
my operas are
my own personal dramas,
and my magnum opus
is this life itself.
For I am like you
the extraordinary person.
Nov 25, 2010
Nov 25, 2010 at 10:27 PM UTC
I have been singing for forgotten things,
beer bottles hidden in the hedgerows.
The opera singer, the strangled vibrato,
ash-filled cokes cans; the afterparty sunrise.
This recovery has been long, fickle.
Reckless optimism and the science of failure
collide into the colour
of a Daniel Johnston cartoon,
or a songwriter's sense of humour.
Disused pencils stand as monuments
to old dreams of grass-roots art,
the fragility of neurotic *******
drawn with innumerable straight lines
that composite a woman's naked body.
I have been drawing on memories
and hoping for a brand-new image;
dissolution of old borders - a strangled voice
in a room full of opened tongues.
The Hawaiian shirt made light of depression
in darkened hours and wax smiles.
Plastic cocktails, the pending brides;
desperate men - the post-work demise.
I have learned a lie ever since.
This recovery has been imperfect, a fraud.
Swollen truths to satisfy the concerned,
only myself left to fool.
I have found the early morning
but cannot reach a sober conclusion.
Redundant habits mildew my mind
with the backwater of yesterday,
familiar street names to mourn
those who became strangers,
the negative bias of my mind's eye.
I have been writing words of action
from the safety of my desk;
all that the desk-lamp can illuminate,
all of which words can make sense.
This half-lived recovery is bunk, irretrievable.
Working poverty and untied knots
are co-morbid in meaninglessness;
chains to hold me in Plato's Cave
whilst her skin freckles in the sun.
Disused and living outside of love,
morning curtains open to a sheet of light
that obliterates loneliness
in the presence of shared heat,
only for it to return again, come night.
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 3:25 PM UTC
I have a vision of you. Theres excitement in your eyes. Your toes are writhing in ecstasy to rhythmic cadence. The song you sing as I play your instrument makes for a sweet melody. Your back arches like radio waves with each note as I stroke the deepest cords. Playing your song to end, chin deep as I bathe in the applause.. I think it should go something like that.
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 8:00 PM UTC
I met you 3 years ago.
5' 2" and terrifying.
You never got any taller, but your rockstar personality shot right to the moon and back. And you never let anybody bring you down or tell you what to do. I admired that about you.
I remember the dumbest things about our friendship. I remember working with you on a group project we both didn't care about. I remember becoming friends with you like it was an easy thing, like we both knew we would be friends eventually.
I remember the first song I ever sent to you, and not expecting you to like it but you did anyway. You told me the song would even get stuck in your head. I promised to send you every song I would ever write.
We were close. I would always make time to talk to you. It didn't matter whether or not you were interrupting anything, I would set anything aside to talk to you.
We shared our jokes, and our pain. Our laughter and longing, we were good friends and we never let each other down.
Until now.
And I will admit that this is my fault.
Please don't place all of the blame on her.
She may be guilty, but so am I.
2 out of the 3 problems were caused by my impulses.
I can handle 66.7% of the blame and consequences.
I can do that.
You can hate me if you want.
You tell me you don't want to talk to her anymore.
I tell you I respect your decision and that I will be here if you need me.
I am sorry.
I know I ******* up our friendship, and I wish I could take it all back.
I wish you could remember me as the innocent songwriter who held out arms of comfort instead of words of contradiction.
I am terrible.
And you don't need me.
But if your heart finds enough forgiveness to see past this.
I will give you a way out.
And if you choose not to take it.
Then maybe you believe that I am worth taking back.
That our friendship is worth fixing.
So tell me:
If I am worth that much...
Are you okay with the idea of starting over?
Because I want to make this better.
You don't have to be around me if you don't want to.
But if I can start over.
I will live through my life thankful that I got a second chance at all.
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 4:36 AM UTC
It's my birthday
and I'm fifty-nine
and I heard a song
by a paranoia producing
songwriter
who said that
it was too late
and this message
seems to come through
to us often
so I know I shouldn't say never
but I'm saying it
and it's not too late
and even if I die right now,
death is no end to life
and even then
it's not too late
and then comes the question,
"Too late for what?"
"This?".
Aug 5, 2011
Aug 5, 2011 at 12:26 AM UTC
“maybe I got no more interest”
dear Tragically Hip, I can’t stop listening to you,
you’re hammering out my heartbeat
through the thin, netted flesh of my headphones
and I can’t help but answer back
“maybe I got no more interest
in the exact feeling”
yes but you see the interest is there for me
and I love trying to imagine
what this exact feeling could be
will I know it when I feel it
dear songwriter, tell me
will I know it when I feel it
did you know it when you felt it
did you feel it?
“I’d be on my hands, I’d be on my knees
saying, hey bartender, one more of these”
well I know that feeling, that exact feeling for sure
I’d just love to hold a finely crafted shot glass
between my thumb and forefinger, swirl
the amber liquid around and toss it back,
badass,
then go up and find this song on the karaoke machine
and sing
“flying, falling, kneeling
trying to get ‘em to notice”
because, dear Tragically Hip
you strum out my emotions, vibrating
muddled and raw through the strings of your guitars
and I can’t help but respond
trying to get ‘em to notice, yeah every day
and maybe they do, maybe they don’t
it’s hard to say
but anyways, I appreciate the thought
and the way you put chords to my heart
“the exact feeling
maybe isn’t what I think”
that’s true, I get it now
I won’t know until that train arrives
and the exact feeling
whatever the hell it is
pulls into the station
I guess what I’m trying to say is
dear Tragically Hip
thank you
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 12:32 AM UTC
Sara L Russell
A songwriter sat down to write
and tried and tried with all this might
to make the inspiration come
until the bowels of his soul were numb
until he almost screeched in pain
and forced an idea in his brain.
He strained, then like a thunderclap,
out came a song - and it was crap.
Established DJ's tapped their feet,
they thought it sounded rather sweet;
it had nothing unsafe to say
and so they played it night and day
and so they played it day and night
ad nauseam, as if in spite.
It should have been hurled down the nearest drain
but was played again and again and again
And so it got to Number One
and bored the **** off everyone
and so eventually went gold
as down the river the world was sold
as grannies bought it in their droves
(as if grannyhood behoves
the buying of such awful things)
And thus the turkey spread it's wings.
One day, a man with a broken heart
whose business venture fell apart
whose grandmother was very ill
stood high upon a window sill
and wondered, should he jump, or no?
And was six floors high enough to go?
As his aching heart began to thump,
He heard the song - and decided to jump.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 2:15 AM UTC
I want to write a song
I want to be a songwriter
I want to dream a dream
I want to be a dreamer
I want to write a poem
I want to be a poet
I want my poetry to be spread
So that someone will finally feel it
The eyes are sparkling with too much glam
Who has the power to achieve it?
The heart is burdened with too much pain
Who has the power to enter it? Then to heal it?
Then to return it to its original keeper.
Because she lost it while she was floating in gold
Golden dreams would never find its way to her miserable heart
Her miserable heart that wishes to be it all
But here she is, here she goes
Writing about her inability to let her dreams out of this ripped gray closet
She writes them down in her white screen
Perhaps someday, somebody will find it,
Will find it rare.
Sep 7, 2021
Sep 7, 2021 at 6:59 PM UTC
Creation is beautiful;
To see something being created is beautiful.
Seeing an idea take flight.
When a poet grabs a pen, and speaks in words of ink
and lets her mind open and flow in a rhythm of expression
She detaches a section of her soul
and lays it on a piece of parchment
with the hopes that somebody else can pick it up
and attach it with their souls, instead.
When a songwriter forms lyrics to let an audience ingest the world through his eyes
and he pairs up with a musician, tapping away keys at the piano
that would send chills down the spine of the most heartless human,,
and the two form stories of sound and lyrics
that ripple through crowds like the detonation
over the sky of Hiroshima.
When the lonely author writes his sad stories,
Filled with the triumphs he wishes he owned,
he feels the need to fill the paper with more,
because he is in love with creating.
He wants to do more. He wants to be more.
He always feels his actions will never fill the space it should,
and a vacuum will encompass all of his papers,
and even his heart,
so he can never fill either of them as desperately as he wants
but he creates with the hope that somebody can relate.
Even when a boy and a girl hold hands,
or when they hold each other, together, in attraction
with the pains of the world numbed by the drug of the heart,
crossing their fingers that they will always get a refill of their prescriptions,
And their silence says more than any words could.
One smiles, and the second can't resist,
and the creation here is love,
the best,
and frailest,
creation of all.
As for me: I see creation as a challenge as well.
To push yourself to be something else and make something else.
To inspire, to encourage,
to be beautiful, even if nobody is facing you.
To know that when you die, death won't take you entirely,
with the words on paper,
paintings on the wall,
or kisses that you gave,
you will continue to exist. You can never fully die.
Creation is the key to immortality,
but creation isn't about living forever,
it's about allowing others to see who you really are,
and who they can be.
Creation is telling stories and lessons to others,
Creation is sharing,
Creation is helping.
Creation is beautiful.
Jul 28, 2011
Jul 28, 2011 at 8:42 PM UTC
It could not be better than
to discover the music of the early 70s
It was so more than Prog
the singer songwriter hold his sway
under the tree cultivated by Bob
and his one time bandmates the Band,
gave a template back to basics
The Beatles shadow set the standards
in creativity.
before Glam rock lifted the lid,
leading a fallacious path into Punk Rock
and our music savious were truly shot.
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 11:49 AM UTC
I'm not a poet but I write poetry
I'm not a songwriter but I write songs
I'm not an artist but I paint and do things of the artistic persuasion
I don't like to title things
They sound so official
And offically, I don't know what I am
Feb 6, 2024
Feb 6, 2024 at 12:38 AM UTC
Saturday morning, well armed
coffee cup and newspapers,
from days past and miracle!
even future, Sunday news,
prematurely birthed.
Content to content.
Pandora supplies the music,
outside, clouds of steam tinge,
decorate a pale blue sky,
freshwater pearls from man,
a choker to grace
nature's blue purity.
All's well, a weekend day as
God meant it to be, labor free.
Then I am weeping.
Dan Fogelberg, poet songwriter,
cancer victim, longtime gone,
weeps me into a memorable mess.
Leader of the Band,
a tribute to his father,
shipwrecks me on his
river of souls.
So much more, needs adding.
But songs end, and so do I.
But the tears keep reforming,
falling freely as I acknowledge freely,
my father too, a good man,
a cancer victim,
who led his band,
his fellow patients in the
doctor's waiting room
in spontaneous uplifting song.
I have no idea why
I was so entitled.
I have no idea
what to entitle this.
As Dan wrote/sang,
cry when you have to,
it's part of the plan.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 10:49 AM UTC
My mother and I met on Cupid.com
I was thirteen and she was forty-five;
but on her profile she was listed as
twenty-nine. We agreed to meet
at the local Starbucks on a Sunday afternoon.
The sun was out;
it's rays like orange sprinkles dusting
the dead, green earth
and snake-like sidewalks.
I sat in the far corner, my head
in a book; every now and then
peeking over the pages my
finger bookmarked. I was reading
****** and I had not made it
past the first page. Lo-Lee-
Ta, or something rather.
She arrived ten minutes later
than the time we agreed on,
but I wasn't angry. She offered
to buy me a Iced Vanilla Frappuccino
and salted caramel cake-pop but I declined.
We sat there for what seemed like a decade.
I was too busy looking around; acting
like I was admiring the art on the walls;
and she was playing with her hands;
humming to a popular female folk singer-
songwriter that was playing over the loudspeakers.
'I can go,' she said after the track finished.
'No, it's okay.
Stay, please' I said.
There was silence.
'It's been a while since I've seen you'
she said.
'I know, I know' I said,
'You lied
about your age.
That's not cool'
'Sorry about that.
I just didn't know
if you'd like me
if I was older
than forty..'
'That's the entire point,
no?' I interrupted.
And I didn't notice
she had bad posture
until she started fidgeting
with her hair; it was in a loose,
unkempt bun. She tugged
at the hair tie until
it all fell down to her shoulders.
I was finally relieved
to see that I had a beautiful
mother and soon suggested
that we go to her place
and talk about my childhood.
She smiled, and made
an attempt to grab the car
keys she left on the table,
but I was quicker.
'No,' I said laughing,
'I'm driving'.
And that was the first
time I ever took charge;
and nothing has changed since.
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 3:01 AM UTC
hellraiser headbanger
time to party with the stranger
on the borderline of danger
troubled times all so fine
corruption is on my mind
been a juvenile delinquent all my life
but i'm still here so i'm doing something right
mama knows she can't handle me
so now she just leaves me be
let go and explode
if you can't handle it don't carry the load
let go and explode
if you can't handle it don't carry the load
take me down to the town
and we'll see just who's around
we will see what's to be seen
you're not as young as you are green
the high class can stick it up their ***
cuz the life for me is always fast
i don't care what they say
i'm gonna do it my own way
let go and explode
if you can't handle it don't carry the load
let go and explode
if you can't handle it don't carry the load
this mutant don't live the norms
i've had my bad habits since i was born
live the style of deviation
authority just tries my patience
songwriter streetfighter
the hangman pulls the knot a little tighter
but only if they can catch me
for tonight i am free
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 8:47 AM UTC
She is unfinished stories and dog-eared adventure books. She is adorned with string lights and stray cat toys, an overflowing junk drawer and a perfectly loud laugh. She is kind brown eyes and witty comments. She is first.
He is pastel tears and bird feathers. He is Twenty One Pilots' lyrics and faded polaroids. He speaks in hushed tones and drinks mint tea. He will hold and let himself be held. He is empathy.
She is firey spirit and winged eyeliner. Glitter and badassery. She is scarred and beautiful. She protects and yells. Cries and laughs. She is ***** jokes and black clothes. She is who I am too timid to be.
He is a lone flame and endless darkness all at once. He is a sharp blade and subdued smile. Strong coffee, pop-tarts, and ripped jeans. Tae kwon do and boy scouts. He is too often forgotten.
She is buck teeth and Greatest Showman lyrics. Stubbornness and freckles. Conceals her self-consciousness with mock confidence. Funny faces and the best dance moves. She hides my things and steals my clothes. She stirs up trouble in the best way.
He is soft smiles and lego armies. He loves cats and make-believe (though video games are his first love). Creates pillow forts and mysteries, art and movie magic. He wears glowstick necklaces and no shirt proudly, as he should. He loves my heart.
She is willow trees and afternoon tea. Gentle rain and improv games. Quirky and polite, she is decorated with her gap-toothed smile and childish style. She hands out stickers and strums her ukelele with affection. She inspires me.
He. Oh God, he. He is summer skies and skateboards. Braces and freckles. He is a shell-collector and songwriter. He loves the stage. Compassion and hand-holding, cheek kisses and free smiles. He is devotion.
They hold me, and I hold them. We cry, we laugh, we hate. We sing and we dance, we talk about our dreams. We depend on each other. We love one another. Many would not be here without me.
And I couldn't be here without them.
Apr 25, 2018
Apr 25, 2018 at 11:39 PM UTC