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"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?
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Feb 15, 2018
Feb 15, 2018 at 10:29 AM UTC
Article: Taylor Swift and why rhyme sells,
From the BBC today, Excerpt Why does Taylor Swift write so many one-note melodies? "It's easy to get distracted by her celebrity, but Taylor Swift is a once-in-a-generation songwriter. From the very beginning, she's displayed a knack for melody and storytelling that most artists never master. Take, for example, her first US number one, OUR SONG Written for a high school talent show, it's a fairly typical tale of teenage romance until the final lines: "I grabbed a pen / And an old napkin / And I wrote down our song." That's smart, self-assured songwriting for someone who wasn't old enough to vote. Notably, the lyrics insert the musician directly into the narrative - something she developed into a tried and tested trope. But Our Song also establishes another of Taylor's trademarks: The one-note melody. Excerpt Repetitive melodies that centre around a single note are part of that appeal. They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech. "They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech." "They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech." "They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech." Rebuttal Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics. They can relate to your song but if they cannot sing it themselves putting themselves in the 'first-person perspective narrative' they cannot feel as-if they have BECOME the artist and are living that moment as they remember it. Taylor Swift sings about teenage love and angst something EVERYONE ON EARTH understands. ALL POETRY BEGAN AS RHYME IN SONG. Cadences are singing statements that confer a discipline and unity. Song acts as a catharsis. The artist shares their pain in a way that is universally understood. If you want to sell a rock, literally a pebble, you will not sell it if it doesn't look like a rock. If it doesn't do what rocks do. If it is not what people remember a rock to be like. Nor will it sell if it is just like every other rock they have ever seen. It cannot convey an emotion unless it elicits emotion. One cannot even begin to feel emotional if one cannot remember easily the past and that includes lyrics one has heard that evoked said emotional state. It is horrifying to see HOW BADLY EVERYONE INSISTS that rhyme be obliterated in exchange for an intellectual or individual perspective NOT SHARED BY THE MAJORITY OF PEOPLE. If you want to sell and make money you better start thinking about the 99% of people who are not geniuses. If your sole goal in life is to attract a genius to give you a great job because of how, "smart," they perceive you to be then fine. You are not an artist. You are an employee. "Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics." "Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics." "Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics." Thrice Times Great. ⁻ᴴᵉʳᵐᵉˢ                                            BECOME                               EVERYONE ON EARTH                ALL POETRY BEGAN AS RHYME IN SONG                       HOW BADLY EVERYONE INSISTS             NOT SHARED BY THE MAJORITY OF PEOPLE                                          HOW BAD                                       artist? or employee?
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36
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.
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May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 3:22 PM UTC
You and me
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.
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Oct 21, 2017
Oct 21, 2017 at 12:15 PM UTC
Cake and Class
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
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Oct 26, 2011
Oct 26, 2011 at 12:11 PM UTC
Mind of a Songwriter
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.
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Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 7:43 PM UTC
Big Girls Are Awesome (Skinny Ones Are Quite Nice Too)
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.
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58
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.)
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Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 3:48 PM UTC
An Open Letter to Really Important People / The Old Dime Box, Texas Statement
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.)
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18
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.
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Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 12:30 AM UTC
Songwriter
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
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Dec 1, 2017
Dec 1, 2017 at 2:47 PM UTC
Black American
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.
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Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 12:38 PM UTC
Joni Michell
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.
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Nov 25, 2010
Nov 25, 2010 at 10:27 PM UTC
Ordinary Person
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.
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Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 3:25 PM UTC
Well, Again
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.
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47
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.
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Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 8:00 PM UTC
Songwriter
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.
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Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 4:36 AM UTC
Begin Again
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.
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34
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?".
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Aug 5, 2011
Aug 5, 2011 at 12:26 AM UTC
It's Never Too Late
“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
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Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 12:32 AM UTC
A Sincere Thanks to the Tragically Hip
“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
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45
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.
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Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 2:15 AM UTC
THAT Song
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.
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Sep 7, 2021
Sep 7, 2021 at 6:59 PM UTC
Rare
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.
0
Jul 28, 2011
Jul 28, 2011 at 8:42 PM UTC
Creation
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.
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52
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.
0
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 11:49 AM UTC
Harvey can you hear me?
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
0
Feb 6, 2024
Feb 6, 2024 at 12:38 AM UTC
Names
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.
0
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 10:49 AM UTC
To be (en)titled
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.
0
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 3:01 AM UTC
Tommy Grimes
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.
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65
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
0
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 8:47 AM UTC
hellraiser headbanger
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.
0
Apr 25, 2018
Apr 25, 2018 at 11:39 PM UTC
love.
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.
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