Poetry stands alone, different from song.
It speaks with a singular voice, not chorus.
It’s often the voice of your grandmother, I’m told.
She is old as old can be, generations flow through her.
In that way, a poem is in chorus, the murmuring of many
But mostly a singular voice, your grandmother’s.
Not aloud, but in your head.
If I can spend a Saturday night
in good conversation,
I will always sacrifice a Sunday morning
in the pews.
There have been roughly 20 songs that have deeply impacted my life. The majority of the songs in my library however, are mostly just nice to listen to on a road trip or fun to dance to at a party, but have no significant meaning to me.
In my own music, I want to write meaningful songs, but I might only write one of two in my whole life … at least in my listener’s opinion. Sometimes the sound falls flat. Sometimes the lyrics could be more expressive. Sometimes my voice is not emotional enough for the listener to feel what I am saying.
And that’s ok. For me, it is enough to always be in the process of creating.
Music is so awesome, but it’s not everything, in my opinion. I get so much peace and enjoyment out of creating music, but I know that I cannot look to music for my worth. I imagine that I’ll write songs for a long time and maybe I’ll capture some good ones, but I want to take away pressure that everything has to be so deep … or really, so anything at all.
He’s got his finger on the pulse – heart beating, thumping, pumping blood to his extremities with a resounding thwack. The bass drum pounds, feet down, stomp because he feels something.
We don’t contemplate jazz anymore, Alan. We howl and wail against hermetically sealed
pop music and her perverse soullessness. Perfect and empty. Unblemished and unattainable. Utmost beauty in a vacuum; cartoonish and ballooning, expanding in every direction; gobbling up talent and creativity in a plundering gluttony.
Take every breath out and missed note and brighten the blues to a soft periwinkle. Remove our humanity from the track. Take her voice and record it 500 hundred consecutive times; compressing the sound of her grandmother into a thin, indistinguishable reed.
You said you wanted pop, but instead you got this.
my phone made me feel cool cause I saw all my friendships and then I cried haha
My creativity is not a commodity. My musical mind is not for sale. My worth is tied to something else, I’m afraid, my imprisonment is out on bail. You cannot buy my peace from me and leave ‘worry’ on my stoop. I will not open bills from the likes of those, living in a feedback loop.
My hope is not a bargaining chip, much less my cartwheels in the sun. I have developed calluses from a long race being run. The toughness of my tender heart, an oxymoron in the least – though you must mind my six foot sword, if you call yourself a beast.
Frivolity, like eating cake, is a business of my own. You might call my work a sort of ‘laziness,’ pout and lip at my poems. Meditation is nay a waste – for the productivity you seek. I’m waiting for that fateful day when progress ain’t so chic.
Take my clothes. Take my house. Do with possessions as you please. But carefully watch your materialisms falling to their knees. My creation equals sanity – a bottle rocket headed such. It’s just for me, all my own, if ya like it, thank ya much.