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Carter Ginter Sep 2017
I cannot sleep
Or at least I choose not to
Until the sun breaks the horizon
I wake up to a typical ringtone
But sometimes my heart hurts
Like it used to when I smoked
And after 12 hours of rest
I can still barely open my eyes
I cannot convince myself that
There's a real reason to wake up
I am so alone aside from my love
That any social interaction crashes over my body with
guilt and embarrassment that have no purpose
I swallow a few conversations but they hurt
I miss the friends I used to have but I know
We changed so much it could never be the same

And through recent interaction
I realize how much I miss my community
Surrounding myself with those who understand
My fears
My pain
My experiences
Without me having to explain it
Validating my emotions and
Reminding me that I am allowed to feel the way I do
Simply because I do
nadine Jun 2017
Waking up in a dark room illuminated by the bright rays of sunshine - it's not the typical start of my day.
All the time, I've been swirling around the hurricane barefooted, thinking it was fine.
Sand is what beneath,
But blood was on my feet.
Only to discover that the sand was a sharp knife.

Cold breeze at night touched my skin and left me shivering in thrills,
Resembling your voice, my heart cried in extreme pain as if it was in drills.
The tiny drops of water from the blue sky flows down and cries,
Just like how happy memories got drowned in the ocean of lies.

Unafraid to touch a beautiful rose with deadly thorns,
For there's nothing much more blood to get spilled.
My heart was covered with steel as my shield,
Still you managed to broke and hurt me to the core.

Trapped inside a small dark chained room was me,
Screaming at you, pleading to set me free.
Knowing there's no escape in this unending misery,
You gave up, without knowing your heart is the chain's key.
this has been
Adrienne Sep 6
what if we changed the definition of beauty
to something actually beautiful
something more than your typical
blue eyes, blonde hair mold
what if the definition of 'beautiful'
meant every shape, size, and skin tone
what if every girl was beautiful too?
what if, in advertising,
we showed more diversity, pody positivity,
so that every girl loved her looks?
what if we changed the rules,
stopped going by the books,
and decided for ourselves what beauty is?
what if we changed it
to something actually beautiful
something more than your typical
blue-eyed, blonde-haired mold?
what if 'beautiful' meant
every size, shape, and skin tone
what if we decided for ourselves what beauty is?
what if, instead of body-shaming each other,
we would teach one another
the value of our bodies
that you are beautiful too
Classy J Feb 6
Trying to figure why a ***** tried to stunt on me.
While my homie fronts on me.
Triggered lie’s blasting out like bullets into your chest, golly!
Vigor dying whilst family crying that left me locked up now in a little celly.
Why did I pour out my heart to that ***** named shelly?
**** got me melancholy, casting out poxy curses.
My proxy is dropping down which got me feeling worthless.
Growing up in projects where one survives by snatching purses and killing snitches.
While society bides their time by tying nooses.
Rigged games yet we are told to give no excuses.
So, a minority got no choice but to role with the punches.
But with darker skin colour most don’t or won’t notice the bruises.
Vile nobility just loves hunting gooses.
Stark contrast idly confides and resides Inside institutionalized nuances.
Some people can be such nuisances.
Got me feeling like tony roaming through the different cosmoses.
Lonely sinking feeling, with my hope which was once flickering but is now slowly fleeting.
Reciprocal tensions pokes through my barriers like an unwelcomed greeting.
Typical tropes of under-achieving maybe it’s time I let God start intervening?
However, I’m doubtful on whether spirituality is real or nothing more than Kris Kringle.
Jingling jester choirs who always be harping on my people.
Which makes me ponder whether or not God’s supposed love is fickle.
Or if supposed believer’s have actually ever read the bible?
Religious pharisee’s not seeing the irony of praying to their falsified idols.
With their heads so far up their own ***. That they don’t even realize that they’ve actually been worshipping the devil.
Diana Sep 2018
I want a relationship
That's anything but typical
One that defies cliches
And the definition of spontaneous

I want to be so in tune with another
To the point where it feels
As though a piece of me
Has crawled its way into him

I want a relationship
That takes a detour from anything
Such as dinner and a movie for a first date
To thrift store shopping
In the streets of Seattle
At dusk
While ending the night
At a warm cozy cafe
Situated on a quiet corner
In the shadows of the city
Where poetry is either
Softly spoken
Or bitterly belted out
From within one's own soul
On a rugged beaten-up stage
With nothing but a spotlight
And wooden stool
All while we sip on tea
(Because I don't like coffee)
And reminisce on the moments
Worth remembering
That were made that day together
In between fits of laughter
While secretly dreaming
About the future ones to be made
In the comfort of our minds
As we tightly grasp our warm mugs
In front of our lips
To hide the shy smiles
That dare to make an appearance
rebecca Oct 2018
ruffled caramel hair you always mess with
eyes with a hundred beautiful blue hues I can't fully describe
a warm laugh that makes your voice sparkle
perfect lips I long to tough with mine
a heart that cares, that loves, that beams
a spirit that loves the Lord
a sort of gritty, not-too-low-or-too-high voice
limbs that dance with her
with her small size and shape
her long brown, perfectly curled hair
in a short, white dress that shimmers in the starlight
her muscular legs that chase a useless sphere every weekend
not with my thick silhouette
my short mom-ish hair
a dress I got in a size 1... from the plus sized store
my short chubby **** self
my fine art passions with meanings and flame
you chose her
she hasn't loved you
I have

for a year you didn't see
"I know it's only in my mind
That I'm talking to myself and not to him
And although I know that he is blind
Still I say, there's a way for us"

Jordan Rowan Jun 2016
I died on a Tuesday and found my way in the news
Caught between a commercial and karaoke singing girl
Was the appearance of the killer but they only had his shoes

I approached the desk and rang a little bell
Saint Peter took out a pen, found my name and said
"You're not on the list, you must be looking for Hell."

I tried to appeal for trial in Heavenly Courtroom Twelve
Judge Jesus and Judy had to declare a hung jury
And during recess I had to find a bed in Purgatory Hotel

In Room 237, I met a man named Avery
He was a little cynical and said that this was typical
That "it took them 18 years to finally save me."

In the morning I finally I got to hear the verdict
Led by a jury of peers such as writers and queers
They said hell awaits those whose life isn't worth it
Abraham Esang Oct 2017
Death showed me how to dress.

it says "not that one, these shoes rather, somewhat less dynamic and somewhat more meek, more

modesty, less certainty."

Death showed me not to wear hoodies, to keep my head revealed, to wear light hues

rather than dull in light of the fact that I am sufficiently dim as of now

to purchase a belt for some jeans I possess, even better, to not wear pants,

death showed me how to do my hair, it says "less curl, more typical, straighter, longer,

more slender," it consumes my scalp and gives me a brush and says "isn't it decent to run your

fingers through it now,"

Death showed me who to like, what music to tune in to, how to keep individuals agreeable,

instructions to walk; "don't limp, straight shoulders, however remain littler than them,"

it showed me my vocabulary, the majority of the enormous words that gain me honors, for example, 'verbalize,'

'dislike whatever remains of them,' 'a great one,'

Death is continually instructing me to be less, less American, more African , an appreciated expansion, a

token, to reveal myself and strip myself of any weapons, any dangers

Death is a x-beam machine, and says in the event that I do anything incorrectly, it will come

as though I'm not kicking the bucket to myself as of now

Death says "what an opportunity to be alive."

since in this nation, Black is imperceptible
faith Oct 2017
it has been a long day,
a rough day,
your typical Monday,
i rolled out of bed,
and almost hit my head,
my feet feel like lead,
i'm so tired,
but i know it's required,
i'm not inspired,
why school,
why are you so cruel,
you spin me around like a whirlpool,
i hate you,
you are not my boo,
you make me want to spew,
but now today is done,
you think you have won,
but you have been outrun,
by me,
now you should flee,
and i think you would agree.
I hate Mondays.
My legs and arms feel like they're stuck in mud
Trapped in a swamp of murky memories
A liquid so thick it hurts my lungs to fight the sinking
But theres no reflection here
So I won't let it swallow me
Most of the time I forget I'm fighting
The pain is so typical my body feels numb to it sometimes
But when I'm not rejecting my reality
Or repressing my circumstances
The all too familiar feeling
Anchors my body down so heavily
That even the idea
Of continuing to fill my lungs each moment
Is exhausting and debilitating.

The rare moments when I let myself feel things are excruciating
Anxiety claws through my chest
Like a rabid raccoon fighting for freedom
As terror bubbles through each of my muscles,
The only remainder of proof left
From the unspeakable and disgusting acts of others,
The memories I don't have anymore
The ones I choose to forget.

And yet they still keep trying so hard
To **** me into them
To make me remember them.
I didn't ask for this.
I didn't ask him to touch me.
I didn't ask her to hit me.
But I'm the one who's still stuck here
Fighting my past
Fighting myself
There's no reflection in this sludge of memories
Because I can't bring myself to look for one
I'm afraid that if I see myself in it
See what they did to me
See what I didn't do to stop it
I'll lose the last bit of sanity
That I am so desperately holding on to
Michael John Sep 2018
well that was lunch which
was preoccupied with such
thoughts of the typical poet
eg why does the world want
to cheat me..

what is the point and what
is for lover´ s eyes are
burnished fields´  of wheat
i thought of love
and lily..

a small blue bowl of vague
reminded of a broken heart
and since stopping smoking
marijuana has my art
suffered unnecessarily..

or is it better some clue
must tell the difference between
the placid and uncontolable rage
the compatability of lasagne and rice
the oxymoron..

the pollution of serviettes..
with our destructive urges
laced with inexplicable
flat cola and

not unlike hunting for
searching salt to will
made in our own likeness
cold soup to chips
to explain..

what is this thing called man
chapatti and jam..
we have to have to tell
we have to work
and then stack
to clear them..

begin again
the thoughts
of a typical
poet and soooo
Dr Peter Lim Mar 28
Brown leaves strewn on ground
after last night's heavy rain
typical autumn
Eryri Sep 2018
It rained on my wedding day:

A week of August sunshine ended!

"Typical!" I complained, "isn't it ironic?"

But, I guess it's the weather you get for being agnostic.
madyson shaye Sep 2014
in hindsight, if I fell in love this easy, I should be able to fall out just as easy, but for whatever reason reversal always seems a lot trickier. faith is just something we use to trick ourselves into thinking everything's okay when in reality there is nothing left, so no, I don't have faith that we'll work this out because that would prove we couldn't. I'm not throwing what we are into the universe and leaving it all up to fate, halfway because I'm a control freak and halfway because it wouldn't be fair to our past, to all that we've been through, to shrug and leave it up to chance.

the night I was planning on leaving you, you were also planning on leaving me. we met up in your bedroom when the sun had just gone down and we were both exhausted, before you'd been at work all day and I'd spent hours in a bookstore, it was a very typical night for us to end up together. I didn't break up with you and you didn't break up with me. does it mean something that both of us had the intention to end it, walk out and not look back? or does it mean something that neither of us went through with it? later you told me the day before when you asked me to meet you in your bedroom at 7, you'd been planning on telling me you had to work it out with her. I laughed and told you that when you asked me to be there at 7, I nodded and decided it was the last time I'd tell you I'd see you there.
in actuality that night we had *** for somewhere around 2 hours and I decided that I wasn't selfless enough to adhere to the cliche of loving someone so much you let them go. you called me baby for the first time that night. to date, you've called me it twice.
in a perfect world, I'd be sitting at a red light trying to catch a glimpse of the accident thirty feet in front of me and I'd pick up my phone and tell you I was having an existential crisis because I was ten seconds away from being hit. in a perfect world, you'd smirk and tell me that's a really selfish mindset because someone actually did get hit and it wasn't me. in a perfect world, I'd lay on your chest and listen to your heartbeat and feel content instead of empty. in a perfect world, your arms around me wouldn't remind me of how lonely I am.
I know this love is real, and honest and incomparable, but I also know this love is selfish, and every time I dry heave in my car because your bedroom light is on and her car is out front while I'm trying to navigate, screaming "I have to break up with him, I'm going to break up with him" over and over and over, believing it less and less with every cry, I only end up loving you more, and that's some ******* *******
in a perfect world, I wouldn't have to write this. I wouldn't have to ask you to step outside because my chest feels so tight I think my skin might just rip, and we wouldn't spend 25 minutes of our 30 minute conversation having small talk just to trick my body out of panicking. in a perfect world, I wouldn't say, "she's waiting on you, are you going to be in trouble?" and you wouldn't say, "I dont know, probably. can you breathe?" and I wouldn't reply, "your voice makes everything a little easier," and you wouldn't say, "I don't like that you are in this place," and I wouldn't whisper, "in a perfect world, we would be perfect together, you know? in a perfect world what we have would be perfect. we'd be perfect," and you wouldn't get sad that I was thinking like that again, you wouldn't sigh and say "I know. I have to go soon honey," and I wouldn't say "I know. I know you do. I'll let you go," and you wouldn't say goodbye and ask me to text you when I got home safely, and I wouldn't say I will and wait for you to hang up before whispering, "I love you so much I think I'm going mental".

in hindsight, this should have never started. sitting here now I can tell you 4,000 ways this could have stopped before it became such a gross mixture of gratifying and the most painful experience to date. I read the other day that our hearts form before our brains so maybe my reluctance to listen to reason has to do with my heart crying out seniority and swearing it knows what it's doing. It's funny to think about the night we started and how many different things fell apart before you saw me and told me you liked my smile and asked me to text you. I wasn't even supposed to be there that night. I could call that fate, that the stars had me and you in mind that night when they got my gig cancelled and called me into work, or I could say something like, "in a perfect world, I could love you, and you could love me, and that could be enough"
Jim Hill Dec 2017
At 104th street
a great bulk of igneous rock
heaves itself from Central Park—
wet black-green in halide streetlight
like a breaching submarine.

I hadn’t seen this place before;
still, I passed, all a funk,
mind inside itself (a typical brood),
moving past with just a sidelong look.

By a low stone wall
at the foot of the cliff, a man
(black parka, pants
too long, high-top shoes)
leaned as if in muttered
collusion with the ground.

He spoke to someone as I passed
(I figured he was drunk).
“Fella,” I heard him say,
as if to me.
I stopped, and looking back,
saw from across the wall,
crouched on the side of the cliff
a raccoon, black-masked,
capacious gray coat,
tiny hands.

It sat there watching me,
or rather, just watching,
attentive to some
attraction I didn’t see.

And then another.
And another.
And all along that black expanse
must have been twenty raccoons
(I didn’t think they could be so varied)
quietly foraging, awaiting,
I came to understand,
the man in the black coat.

He threw bread to them
like the old pigeon lady in
Mary Poppins
and five or so gathered nearby
on the other side of the wall
not minding his humanness,
only eating.

“I come out here every night,” he explained.
“I don’t got a girlfriend anymore,
so I come out here
and feed them to **** time.”

He tore a piece from a half-gone baguette
and threw it to a little one.

“There’s like fifty of them now,” he said.
“There were twenty when I started;
they have four or five babies every spring.
Nobody knows they’re here except me.”

As he spoke, a baby raccoon
climbed up a sapling
by the wall, extending its sharp black nose
toward the man who held a scrap of bread.
The raccoon took it unreluctantly.
I flinched at the thought of tiny
raccoon teeth missing their mark
on my index finger.
But habit was fixed and easy
here between man and raccoon.

“They’ll come up and sit on my shoulder...”
he said at last and then trailed off.

I stood and watched for several minutes—
this assembly of raccoons
along the black cliff
and the man who called them “fella” and “baby.”

At last he said with satisfaction,
“They call me the raccoon man.”
Deciding he had said his bit,
I gave a soft, enthusiastic whistle
between my teeth
as if to say,
“Well done.”

At 105th street, I felt remorse
for not having said more
to the man who drew
his nocturnal congregation every night
right there on Central Park West.
And in a gesture of regret,
I turned slightly back as I walked
to the see his black form
bent over the low wall
dispensing bread.
As a little girl she always knew
That she lacked something special
Her own mother reminded her constantly
And the lass is now a grown woman

Adult experiences confirmed what was true
That she was just ordinary and dull
A woman with no it factor
Invisible to all before and around her

She's heard and hears stories of other women
Who use their wiles on hungry men
'If only I had that gift I'd feed a hundred of them'
Instead she's bypassed like she's not even there

Old age is catching up to her now
She may as well be thin air
The only ones who see her are other women
But never the men she dreams of

Ordinary is boring and typical
Nothing exciting about this creature
She might as well be dead and buried
Along with any hopes of truly being seen
Tom Morrissey Aug 2018
Comfort in circumstance
Our role is not minut
A light’s behind our eyes
But our sight is not astute
Gratification in the typical
Of the over achieving self
Learn the profoundness of love
And let that be your wealth
Further your approach
Propel towards the sky
There’s a simple kind of existence
In the complexity of why
No more pounding in your chest
No more gambles
Did you ever ask why?
Why you have compassion? For example
That light is ours
A combined effort in infinite
That light is yours
You need only to abide by it
From the BBC today,


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.


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."


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.


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

                              EVERYONE ON EARTH
                      HOW BADLY EVERYONE INSISTS
                                         HOW BAD
or employee?
BBC article conclusion.
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