Guitar Chord Quotes

If she's amazing, she won't be easy. If she's easy, she won't be amazing. If she's worth it, you wont give up. If you give up, you're not worthy. ... Truth is, everybody is going to hurt you; you just gotta find the ones worth suffering for.

Do I love you because you're beautiful, or are you beautiful because I love you?

The success I've achieved comes to me from God

One less lonely girl

Don't say you're sorry, 'cause I'm not even breaking. You're not worth the time that this is taking.

My emotions overload because there is no hand to hold, there’s no shoulder here to lean on; I’m walking all on my own.

I’m sorry for blaming you for everything I just couldn’t do, and I’ve hurt myself by hurting you.

There’s nothing more dangerous than a boy with charm.

Look at what you've done, you're losing me is what you've won. Got me planning to go solo

I play until my fingers are blue and stiff from the cold, and then I keep on playing. Until I'm lost in the music. Until I am the music--notes and chords, the melody and harmony. It hurts, but it's okay because when I'm the music, I'm not me. Not sad. Not afraid. Not desperate. Not guilty.

And it only hurts when I'm breathing My heart only breaks when it's beating My dreams only die when I'm dreaming So, I hold my breath--to forget

I thought I knew who you were, but I see now you were a lesson to learn, and all I am to you now is a bridge that’s been burned.

I don't need a telescope to see that there's hope, and that makes me feel brave.

But life is just a party, and parties weren't meant to last.

Baby get ready, get set, please don't go.

I'd rather pick flowers instead of fights.

I have my own life. And I am stronger than you know.

Sometimes in life you don't always feel like a winner, but that doesn't mean you're not a winner.

Kiss Me Hard Before You Go,Summertime Sadness

Chicken is good and never stop eating you will look like me and you will have hair like me and sing like me and be 500 pounds!!!!

Home will always be here Unseen, out of sight Where I disappear and hide I think dreamy things as I'm waving goodbye So I'll spread out my wings and fly

When violet eyes get brighter And heavy wings grow lighter I'll taste the sky and feel alive again And I'll forget the world that I knew But I swear I won't forget you Oh if my voice could reach back through the past I'd whisper in your ear: "Oh darling I wish you were here.

The end is uncertain and I've never been so afraid But I don't need a telescope to see that there's hope And that makes me feel brave.

love is just a history that they may prove and when your gone ill tell them my religion is you

How can I be lost, if I've got nowhere to go?

You’ve got me feeling like you’re that something I’ve been missing.

When the World Gets in my Face I say, Have a Nice Day.

I am the black in the book the letters on the pages that you memorize.

I wish I had covered all my tracks completely cause I'm so afraid Is that the light at the far end of the tunnel or just the train?

Dirty pony, I can't wait to hose you down.

I forget the last time I felt brave, I just recall insecurity Cause it came down like a tidal wave, and sorrow swept over me Then I was given grace and love, I was blind but now I can see Cause I found a new hope from above, and courage swept over me

And now that I'm without your kisses, I'll be needing stitches.

Everything in the world's got a voice; most people don't hear hard enough is all. Sunrise sounds like slow chords dripping from my guitar this morning. Sad chords, in B-flat.

Well, all I need is the air I breathe and a place to rest my head.

Cause when push comes to shove, You taste what you're made of. You might bend till you break, Cause it's all you can take. On your knees, you look up, Decide you've had enough. You get mad, you get strong, Wipe your hands, shake it off. And you stand...

All I have is this guitar, these chords and the truth.

Can I? Yeah. You bet I can. There's a million things in this world can't do. Couldn't hit a curve ball, even back in high school. Can't fix a leaky faucet. Can't roller-skate or make an F-chord on the guitar that sounds like anything but shit. I have tried twice to be married and couldn't do it either time. But if you want me to take you away, to scare you or involve you or make you cry or grin, yeah. I can. I can bring it to you and keep bringing it until you holler uncle. I am able. I CAN.

I get so high when you're with me then crash and crave you when you leave

Home is a boxcar and it's so far out of reach Hidden under umbrella beach

Do I love you because you're beautiful, or are you beautiful because I love you? Am I making believe I see in you, a woman too perfect to be really true? Do I want you because you're wonderful, or are you wonderful because I want you? Are you the sweet invention of a lover's dream, or are you really as beautiful as you seem?

If I knew what I was doing, I'd be doing it right now. I would be the best damn poet, silver words out of my mouth. My words might not be magic, but they cut straight to the truth. So if you need a lover and a friend, baby, I'm in.

the best people in life are free

I tell you how I feel But you don't care I say tell me the truth But you don't dare You say love is a hell You cannot bear And I say gimme mine Back and then go there For all I care.

Amo a liberdade, por isso as coisas que amo deixo-as livres. Se voltarem é porque as conquistei, se não voltarem é porque nunca as tive

I'd take another chance, take a fall Take a shot for you And I need you like a heart needs a beat But it's nothin new I loved you with a fire red- Now it's turning blue, and you say... "Sorry" like the angel heaven let me think was you But I'm afraid... It's too late to apologize,

People are like sweet, sweet chords - we love them when they're playing all together nicely, like in the pretty number I'm going to spin next, but it would be a crying shame to forget what a lovely little noise a D major makes strummed on a single guitar.

I listen to the wind, to the wind of my soul Where I end up, well, I think only God really knows

Love when you can. Cry when you have to. Be who you must, it's a part of the plan. Await your arrival, with simple survival, and one day we'll all understand.

Fight and push harder for what you believe in, you’d be surprised, you are much stronger than you think.

I have never been So insulted in all my life I could swallow the seas To wash down all this pride First you run like a fool Just to be at my side And now you run like a fool But you just run to hide.

How could he know this new dawn's light would change his life forever? Set sail to sea, but pulled off course by the light of golden treasure.

I want to know, have you ever seen rain comin down on a sunny day?

Wish I had known what seemed so strong has been and gone.

I need you like a heart needs a beat (But that's nothing new)

For me you'll always be 18 And beautiful And dancin' away with my heart.

New year is a day, to tune the rhythm called SOUL, with best chords called EXPERIENCES and play the guitar called LIFE.

A different lover is not a sin

A beautiful and binding morning The world outside begins to breathe See clouds arriving without warning I need you here to shelter me. If I could make these moments endless If I could stop the winds of change If we just keep our eyes wide open Then everything would stay the same And I know that only time will tell me how We'll carry on without each other So keep me awake for every moment Give us more time to be this way We can't stay like this forever But I can have you next to me today

My rock candy passion is bittersweet And armed to the teeth Cuz she would rather fall in chocolate Than fall in love.. Especially with me!

You never miss the water til the well runs dry...

you're not the opinion of someone who doesn't know you

It’s not our job to make people like us if they don’t want to. It’s not our job to change people. That’s beyond our control. But what you CAN control is how you respond to it.

It's not easy waiting on You, it's not easy believing that You got this together, but without faith it is impossible to please You.

When no hope was left inside On that starry, starry night You took your life as lovers often do But I could have told you, Vincent This world was never meant For one as beautiful as you.

I didn't come for a fight, but I'll fight till the end

Lights flash and we'll run for the fences Let them say what they want we won't hear it

Everybody's got a dark side. Do you love me? Can you love mine? Nobody's a picture perfect, but we're worth it, you know that we're worth it.

Things aren't always what they seem You're only seeing part of me There's more than you could ever know Behind the scenes.

Notes and chords have become my second language and, more often than not, that vocabulary expresses what I feel when language fails me. The guitar is my conscience, too - whenever I've lost my way, it's brought me back to center; whenever I forget, it reminds me why I'm here.

I was ten when I heard the music that ended the first phase of my life and cast me hurtling towards a new horizon. Drenched to the skin, I stood on Dunoon’s pier peering seawards through diagonal rain, looking for the ferry that would take me home. There, on the everwet west coast of Scotland, I heard it: like sonic scalpels, the sounds of electric guitars sliced through the dreich weather. My body hairs pricked up like antennae. To my young ears these amplified guitars sounded angelic, for surely no man-made instrument could produce that tone. The singer couldn't be human. His voice was too clean, too pure, too resonant, as though a robot larynx were piping words through vocal chords of polished silver. The overall effect was intoxicating - a storm of drums, earthquake bass, razor-sharp guitar riffs, and soaring vocals of astonishing clarity. I knew that I was hearing the future.

The Marie bit is easy enough to understand, then. The Laura thing takes a bit more explaining, but what it is, I think, is this: sentimental music has this great way of taking you back somewhere at the same time that it takes you forward, so you feel nostalgic and hopeful all at the same time. Marie’s the hopeful, forward part of it – maybe not her, necessarily, but somebody like her, somebody who can turn things around for me. (Exactly that: I always think that women are going to save me, lead me through to a better life, that they can change and redeem me.) And Laura’s the backward part, the last person I loved, and when I hear those sweet, sticky acoustic guitar chords I reinvent our time together, and, before I know it, we’re in the car trying to sing the harmonies on “Sloop John B” and getting it wrong and laughing. We never did that in real life. We never sang in the car, and we certainly never laughed when we got something wrong. This is why I shouldn’t be listening to pop music at the moment.

What does not kill us makes us hotter!

Look at the stars Look how they shine for you And everything you do They were all yellow I came along I wrote a song for you And all the things you do And it was called yellow.

If it (life) is a rhythm, I have found my perfect beat!

This is the way the world ends- Not with a bang Not with a whimper But with an E minor chord on a Gibson guitar with the volume turned all the way to ten

And in the evening After the fire and the light One thing is certain: Nothing can hold back the light Time is relentless And as the past disappears We're on the verge of all things new

But for now let me say I love you Later on there'll be time for so much more But for now meaning now and forever Let me kiss you my darling then once more Once more But for now let me say I love you Later on I must know much more of you But for now here and now how I love you As you are in my arms I love you I love you I love you

…his intention was pure. He didn’t know why, but he liked a girl and he felt compelled to do something about it. That’s how it all starts. And as that drive grows, it’s the gateway to real emotion. Emotion that moves mountains and starts wars and makes mix tapes and buys airbrushed lovers’ T-shirts at the beach and writes horrible songs with simple guitar chords. But it’s the gateway to love and passion and rage and fear and jealousy and envy and self-hatred.

Straining to hear, I can make out something acoustic. Coming from...the backyard? I glance down from my bedroom window and feel my jaw fall open. Matt Finch is standing below my window, guitar strapped across his chest. I pull my window up, and I expect the song from that old movie - the one about a guy with a trench coat and the big radio and his heart on his sleeve. But it's not that. It's not anything I recognise, and I strain to make out the lyrics: Stop being ridiculous, stop being ridiculous, Reagan. What an asshole. The mesh screen and two floors between us don't seem like enough to protect him from my anger. "Nice apology," I call down to him. "I've apologised thirteen times," he yells back, "and so far you haven't called me back." I open my mouth to say it doesn't matter, but he's already redirecting the song. "Now I'm gonna stand here until you forgive me," he sings loudly, "or at least until you hear me out, la-la, oh-la-la. I drove seven hours overnight, and I won't leave until you come out here." (...) "This is private property!" My throat feel coarse from how loudly I'm yelling. "And that doesn't even rhyme!" The guitar chord continues as he sings, "Then call the cops, call the cops, call the cops..." I storm downstairs, my feet pounding against the staircase. When I turn the corner, my dad looks almost amused from his seat in the recliner. Noticing my expression, he stares back at his newspaper, as if I won't notice him. (...) "Dad. How did Matt know which window was mine?" "Well..." he peeks over the sports section. "I reckon I told him." "You talked to him?" My voice is no longer a voice. It's a shriek. "God, Dad!" He juts out his chin, defensive. "How was I supposed to know you had some sort of drama with him? He shows up, lookin' to serenade my daughter. Thought it seemed innocent enough. Sweet, even. Old-fashioned." "It's not any of those things! I hate him!

Hold on tight to your dream

the flanger setting ... makes it sound as if the chord is being chewed over thoughtfully by a large genie accustomed to telling long, implausible stories

Still, in the larger sense, in a broader sense, it’s better to have lived than left, right?

We don't care what them people say. We don't have to be ordinary.

Your words cut deeper than a knife.

Some sample lyrics I think I catch: "My engine races up to seventh gear; wrap your legs around my engine, dear . . . . The tunnel's dark, but the ground is wet; I lubricate it with my dripping sweat!" Or, something vaguely disturbing and gross like that; it's hard to tell with the wailing guitars and the front man screaming through his ravaged vocal chords.

Tell me have you ever wanted someone so much it hurts? Your lips keep trying to speak, but you just can't find the words. Well I had this dream once, I held it in my hand... You had me dim the lights, you danced just like a child. The wine spilled on your dress and all you did was smile. Yeah, it was perfect. I hold it in my mind. When we owned the night.

So, I'm gonna choose to reach out, Choose to lay down All of the fear that I've been hiding. Choose to be brave Though my heart's afraid To be a part of your kingdom rising. Oh, God, I'm done runnin' from The reason that You sent Your Son, So I will choose to Love! Maybe I'll hurt Maybe I'll bruise Maybe I'll cry Maybe I'll lose Still, I will choose to love.

Theophilus Crowe wrote bad free-verse poetry and played a jimbai drum while sitting on a rock by the ocean. He could play sixteen chords on the guitar and knew five Bob Dylan songs all the way through, allowing for a dampening buzz any time he had to play a bar chord. He had tried his hand at painting, sculpture, and pottery and had even played a minor part in the Pine Cove Little Theater’s revival of Arsenic and Old Lace. In all of these endeavors, he had experienced a meteoric rise to mediocrity and quit before total embarrassment and self-loathing set in. Theo was cursed with an artist’s soul but no talent. He possessed the angst and the inspiration, but not the means to create.

I'm falling for your eyes, but they don't know me yet

The guitar has shown us again and again: Three chords can rock the world.

Love is not proud. Love does not boast. Love, after all, matters the most. Love does not run. Love does not hide. Love does not keep locked inside. Love is the river that flows through. Love never fails you.

I wrote about everything I didn’t write on The Fame. While traveling the world for two years, I’ve encountered several monsters, each represented by a different song on the new record: my ‘Fear of Sex Monster,’ my ‘Fear of Alcohol Monster,’ my ‘Fear of Love Monster,’ my ‘Fear of Death Monster,’ my ‘Fear of Loneliness Monster,’ etc. I spent a lot of nights in Eastern Europe, and this album is a pop experimentation with industrial/Goth beats, 90’s dance melodies, an obsession with the lyrical genius of 80’s melancholic pop, and the runway. I wrote while watching muted fashion shows and I am compelled to say my music was scored for them.

No I did not call in sick to work today No I'm not out hanging with my friends There's no more wasting time On what I think I'm supposed to do My clock is standing still so I can have my dream life life With the ones I love Playing all day long Laying back by the water side With nowhere to go And the music on I'm working hard for my dream life To be my real life And that can't be wrong All I have is this life So I'm making it what I want

Not all of us are born with fingers that move like fucking Ferraris, homie,” he rants in good humour. ​“Some of us are just fuck-ups who look normal and wear shitty clothes because we can’t afford good ones, and we’re angry and we just wanna take out our angst and shit with a guitar. I’m not inspired by how good you are, it’s almost like the opposite. I wanna feel you. "...the kids that I went to school with fucking hated me, and I’d worn the same clothes for five days, and I was tall, skinny and didn’t fit in. I was a basement; where the fuck was I going to learn how to play like Steve Vai? I couldn’t! I was broke. No-one gave a fuck about me. Give me three chords, though, and tell me to show you how I feel, and I bet you I will.

But how marvelous to get the order into the mails, how delicious and terrible to wait for the parcel from Seattle or Portland that might include with it the new gloves, new shoes for town, phonograph records, a musical instrument to charm away the loneliness of winter evenings when the winds howled like wolves down from the mountain peaks. Our very best guitar. Play Spanish-style music and chords. Wide ebony fingerboard, fine resonant fan-ribbed natural spruce top, rosewood sides and back, genuine horn bindings. This is a real Beauty. Waiting for their order to get to the post office fifteen miles down the road, they read again and again such descriptions, reliving the filling out of the order blank, honing their anticipation. Genuine horn bindings!

Miles grumbled. “Well, stick to hot sauce or ginger in the future if you’re figging.” Kamen strummed his guitar, coming up with the chords for “Killing Me Softly.” “Figgin me softly with hot sauce,” he sang over the sounds of justice being served. “Figging me so-oftly, with hot sauce.” “Buddy . . .” I warned. “Filling my whole ass with his burn . . .” I turned to Gould. “Do you believe this is happening?

How do you become a person? Usually, instead of trying to get a job, I listen to music on YouTube, instead of being a person, I try to become the notes of songs, the chord structure of “Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow” covered by Amy Winehouse, I want to become that song, I learn the song on guitar and strum it on my adobe porch thing, trying to become non-human, sometimes I try to become the taste of a Carl’s Jr. cheeseburger, I want to be that delicious, that bad for you.   Sometimes I listen to Amitabha chants, Navajo chants, even old Kentucky Old Regular Baptists call out chants, I want to be a pure feeling, that may lead to heaven, but instead I am Noah Cicero, sometimes I scream, I can’t be controlled, I can’t be tamed, because I don’t know what to be—

What was captured on tape sounded apocalyptic. 'Eruption' (first titled 'Guitar Solo,' according to the song’s track sheet), takes flight after a quick drum fill and a power chord. Edward sends notes and harmonics soaring before diving down with some gravity-defying tremolo bar bends. Alex and Michael then fire off a flak burst of three chords. Edward maneuvers again, twisting and turning, strafing and bombing before turning on the jets and heading skyward with a flurry of notes. He recedes again, leaving only a descending low note in his wake. After another pause, he attacks again, faster than ever. He weaves and twists and then unleashes his secret weapon: his two-handed tapping technique that would astound and confound guitarists across the world. Finally, an atomic blast, courtesy of Edward’s Univox echo chamber, concludes this minute and forty-three seconds of open warfare on the guitar world.

It was a gorgeous evening, with a breeze shimmering through the trees, people strolling hand in hand through the quaint streets and the plaza. The shops, bistros and restaurants were abuzz with patrons. She showed him where the farmer's market took place every Saturday, and pointed out her favorite spots- the town library, a tasting room co-op run by the area vintners, the Brew Ha-Ha and the Rose, a vintage community theater. On a night like this, she took a special pride in Archangel, with its cheerful spirit and colorful sights. She refused to let the Calvin sighting drag her down. He had ruined many things for her, but he was not going to ruin the way she felt about her hometown. After some deliberation, she chose Andaluz, her favorite spot for Spanish-style wines and tapas. The bar spilled out onto the sidewalk, brightened by twinkling lights strung under the big canvas umbrellas. The tables were small, encouraging quiet intimacy and insuring that their knees would bump as they scooted their chairs close. She ordered a carafe of local Mataro, a deep, strong red from some of the oldest vines in the county, and a plancha of tapas- deviled dates, warm, marinated olives, a spicy seared tuna with smoked paprika. Across the way in the plaza garden, the musician strummed a few chords on his guitar. The food was delicious, the wine even better, as elemental and earthy as the wild hills where the grapes grew. They finished with sips of chocolate-infused port and cinnamon churros. The guitar player was singing "The Keeper," his gentle voice seeming to float with the breeze.

Zeke drifted over to her father’s guitar in the corner of the office. He stared at it for a few long moments, before glancing at her over his shoulder. “Mind?” She shook her head, curious what he would do with the old acoustic. It had seen better days and Dad kept it more for sentimental reasons than practical. Zeke picked it up and dust swirled away. He fitted it under his arm, running through chords to check to see if it was in tune. It wasn’t off by much, but his broad fingers tweaked and tightened until it was at perfect pitch. Seamlessly, he strummed the opening chords to “Home” by Michael Buble. Ember knew her mouth had to be hanging open, but she didn’t care. As if he couldn’t not, his deep voice fell into accompaniment. She stepped away to sink down into a chair, entranced by the broken man singing, eyes shut. Tendrils of need and longing crept into her heart, and it was one of the most beautiful things she’d ever seen. Tears filled her eyes. Almost halfway through the song, his fingers fumbled a note and he stopped singing. When she lifted her eyes to look at him, he stared at her as if he’d forgotten she were there. Jaw tight, emotion brimming in his eyes, he set the guitar back on the stand and walked out of the room. Ember could have wept. She didn’t know why he’d quit, but she wanted him to come right back in and finish the song. Her mind knew what melody was supposed to come next, but it couldn’t create the same type of emotion he had while singing. She thought back to the absolute absorption on his face as he sang, and realized he hadn’t stuttered or hesitated once through the entire performance.