Intentions Lyrics Quotes

All of my words, if not well put nor well taken, are well meant.

You have learnt so much And read a thousand books. Have you ever read your Self? You have gone to mosques and temples. Have you ever visited your soul? You are busy fighting Satan. Have you ever fought your Ill intentions? You have reached into the skies, But you have failed to reach What's in your heart!

Words work as release--well-oiled doors opening and closing between intention, gesture.

I look back on those days and regret none of it, not the risks, not the shame, not the total lack of foresight. The lyric cast of the sun, the teeming fields with tall plants nodding away under the intense midafternoon heat, the squeak of our wooden floors, or the scrape of the clay ashtray pushed ever so lightly on the marble slab that used to sit on my nightstand. I knew that our minutes were numbered, but I didn't dare count them, just as I knew where all this was headed, but I didn't care to read the signposts. This was a time when I intentionally failed to drop bread crumbs for my return journey; instead, I ate them. He could turn out to be a creep; he could change me or ruin me forever, while time and gossip might ultimately disembowel everything we shared and trim the whole thing down till nothing but fish bones remained. I might miss this day, or I might do far better, but I'd always know that on those afternoons in my bedroom I had held my moment.

All of my words, if not well put or well taken, are well meant.

Some people are cynical, yet they know how to make their intentions sound lyrical, but in the end, they leave you with scares that are unmistakable".

I look back on those days and regret none of it, not the risks, not the shame, not the total lack of foresight. The lyric cast of the sun, the teeming fields with tall plants nodding away under the intense midafternoon heat, the squeak of our wooden floors, or the scrape of the clay ashtray pushed ever so lightly on the marble slab that used to sit on my nightstand. I knew that our minutes were numbered, but I didn't dare count them, just as I knew where all this was headed, but I didn't care to read the milestones. This was a time when I intentionally failed to drop bread crumbs for my return journey; instead, I ate them. He could turn out to be a creep; he could change me or ruin me forever, while time and gossip might ultimately disembowel everything we shared and trim the whole thing down till nothing but fish bones remained. I might miss this day, or I might do far better, but I'd always know that on those afternoons in my bedroom I had held my moment.

What is so special about a title? The mode and significance of titles have changed with the change in the lyrical traditions. So these transitions in style and the art of signification are all collective. What has never changed is the author's intentionality in entitling his works. The art of giving a title to a piece of work is entirely conscious. The author chooses, exercises his will in giving a title to his work.

Let’s face it, she’s our inspiration! The Muse as fluffball! And the inspiration of men, as well! Why else were the sagas of heroes, of their godlike strength and superhuman exploits, ever composed, if not for the admiration of women thought stupid enough to believe them? Where did five hundred years of love lyrics come from, not to mention those plaintive imploring songs, all musical whines and groans? Aimed straight at women stupid enough to find them seductive! When lovely woman stoops or bungles her way into folly, pleading her good intentions, her wish to please, and is taken advantage of, especially by somebody famous, if stupid or smart enough, she gets caught, just as in classic novels, and makes her way into the tabloids, confused and tearful, and from there straight into our hearts. We forgive you! we cry. We understand! Now do it some more!

And suddenly he became almost lyric. "For three thousand years the Common Man has been fended off from the full and glorious life he might have had, by Make Believe. For three thousand years in one form or another he has been asking for an unrestricted share in the universal welfare. He has been asking for a fair dividend from civilisation. For all that time, and still it goes on, the advantaged people, the satisfied people, the kings and priests, the owners and traders, the gentlefolk and the leaders he trusted, have been cheating him tacitly or deliberately, out of his proper share and contribution in the common life. Sometimes almost consciously, sometimes subconsciously, cheating themselves about it as well. When he called upon God, they said 'We'll take care of your God for you', and they gave him organised religion. When he calls for Justice, they say 'Everything decently and in order', and give him a nice expensive Law Court beyond his means. When he calls for order and safety too loudly they hit him on the head with a policeman's truncheon. When he sought knowledge, they told him what was good for him. And to protect him from the foreigner, so they said, they got him bombed to hell, trained him to disembowel his fellow common men with bayonets and learn what love of King and Country really means. "All with the best intentions in the world, mind you. "Most of these people, I tell you, have acted in perfect good faith. They manage to believe that in sustaining this idiot's muddle they are doing tremendous things -- stupendous things -- for the Common Man. They can live lives of quiet pride and die quite edifyingly in an undernourished, sweated, driven and frustrated world. Useful public servants! Righteous self-applause! Read their bloody biographies!

I look back on those days and regret none of it, not the risks, not the shame, not the total lack of foresight. The lyric cast of the sun, the teeming fields with tall plants nodding away under the intense midafternoon heat, the squeak of our wooden floors, or the scrape of the clay ashtray pushed ever so lightly on the marble slab that used to sit on my nightstand. I knew that our minutes were numbered, but I didn't dare count them, just as I knew where all this was headed, but I didn't care to read the mileposts. This was a time when I intentionally failed to drop bread crumbs for my return journey; instead, I ate them. He could turn out to be a creep; he could change me or ruin me forever, while time and gossip might ultimately disembowel everything we shared and trim the whole thing down till nothing but fish bones remained. I might miss this day, or I might do far better, but I'd always know that on those afternoons in my bedroom I had held my moment.

The usual short story cannot have a complex plot, but it often has a simple one resembling a chain with two or three links. The short short, however, doesn't as a rule have even that much - you don't speak of a chain when there's only one link. ... Sometimes ... the short short appears to rest on nothing more than a fragile anecdote which the writer has managed to drape with a quantity of suggestion. A single incident, a mere anecdote - these form the spine of the short short. Everything depends on intensity, one sweeping blow of perception. In the short short the writer gets no second chance. Either he strikes through at once or he's lost. And because it depends so heavily on this one sweeping blow, the short short often approaches the condition of a fable. When you read the two pieces by Tolstoy in this book, or I.L. Peretz's 'If Not Higher,' or Franz Kafka's 'The Hunter Gracchus,' you feel these writers are intent upon 'making a point' - but obliquely, not through mere statement. What they project is not the sort of impression of life we expect in most fiction, but something else: an impression of an idea of life. Or: a flicker in darkness, a slight cut of being. The shorter the piece of writing, the more abstract it may seem to us. In reading Paz's brilliant short short we feel we have brushed dangerously against the sheer arbitrariness of existence; in reading Peretz's, that we have been brought up against a moral reflection on the nature of goodness, though a reflection hard merely to state. Could we say that the short short is to other kinds of fiction somewhat as the lyric is to other kinds of poetry? The lyric does not seek meaning through extension, it accepts the enigmas of confinement. It strives for a rapid unity of impression, an experience rendered in its wink of immediacy. And so too with the short short. ... Writers who do short shorts need to be especially bold. They stake everything on a stroke of inventiveness. Sometimes they have to be prepared to speak out directly, not so much in order to state a theme as to provide a jarring or complicating commentary. The voice of the writer brushes, so to say, against his flash of invention. And then, almost before it begins, the fiction is brought to a stark conclusion - abrupt, bleeding, exhausting. This conclusion need not complete the action; it has only to break it off decisively. Here are a few examples of the writer speaking out directly. Paz: 'The universe is a vast system of signs.' Kafka in 'First Sorrow': The trapeze artist's 'social life was somewhat limited.' Paula Fox: 'We are starving here in our village. At last, we are at the center.' Babel's cossack cries out, 'You guys in specs have about as much pity for chaps like us as a cat for a mouse.' Such sentences serve as devices of economy, oblique cues. Cryptic and enigmatic, they sometimes replace action, dialogue and commentary, for none of which, as it happens, the short short has much room. There's often a brilliant overfocussing. ("Introduction")

It's true that Lucinda had once spent hours of her own time putting together a research memo on the Canadian rock band Barenaked Ladies, specifically investigating whether then lead singer Steven Page was purposefully singing in a fake American accent for their 1998 hit single "One Week." She'd notice that the song loudly announces itself with the lyric "IT'S BEEN," but the word "been" is pronounced *bin*, which is the American pronunciation, as opposed to the more Canadian way of saying it, *bean*. Even more notably, the oft-repeated lyric "sorry" is also pronounced the American way, *sawry*, instead of a round Canadian *soary*. After scouring the internet for video and audio interviews with Steven Page, she discovered that he did in fact pronounce "been" the Canadian way in casual conversation, which meant he (intentionally or not) was putting on a fake America accent when he recorded the song. Lucinda couldn't find any literature or analysis on this subject, so she was forced to conjure her own theories, which included: a. Steven Page was actively suppressing his Canadian accent because someone told him his music would be more successful worldwide if he sounded more American, b. he was subconsciously suppressing his accent because he'd already internalized this idea, or c. the song itself is sung from the point of view of a character who lives in the United States and is in fact a subtle satire of American culture.

In one of our conversations, she told me about Finland’s development of sisu, a rough cognate for grit. Etymologically, sisu denotes a person’s viscera, their “intestines (sisucunda).” It is defined as “having guts,” intentional, stoic, constant bravery in the face of adversity. 21 For Finns, sisu is a part of national culture, forged through their history of war with Russia and required by the harsh climate. 22 In this Nordic country, pride is equated with endurance. When Finnish mountain climber Veikka Gustafsson ascended a peak in Antarctica, it was named Mount Sisu. The fortitude to withstand war and foreign occupations is lyrically heralded in the Finnish epic poem, The Kalevala. 23 Even the saunas—two million, one for every three Finns in a country of approximately five and a half million—involve fortitude: A sauna roast is often followed by a nude plunge into the ice-cold Baltic Sea. If Iceland is happier than it has any right to be considering the hours the country spends plunged in darkness each year, Finland’s past circumstances, climate, and developed culture have turned it into one of the grittiest. Finland’s educational system is also currently ranked first, ahead of South Korea, now at number two. 24 The United States is midway down the list. 25 In Finland, there is no after-school tutoring or training, no “miracle pedagogy” in the classrooms, where students are on a first-name basis with their teachers, all of whom have master’s degrees. There is also more “creative play.” 26 Perhaps the tradition of sisu and play, I suspect, are part of the larger, unstated reason for its success. 27 “Wouldn’t it be great if you heard people talking about how they were going to do something to build their grit?” Duckworth asked.

Momoko’s idea of the life of Mrs. Browning was singular. She had somehow gotten the idea that the poetess had been forced into a position much beneath her, had, in fact, been obliged to give herself to numbers of men, none of whom deserved her, and had consoled herself by penning those immortal lyrics of hers. I mentioned that the only men I know of in Elizabeth’s life were her father and her husband, both of whose intentions, so far as I had heard, had been impeccable. Yes, she nodded, pensive. She had heard of them. Robert—he was her first, her true love. And she remained true to him. While in the very throes of unfortunate transport in anonymous arms she had thought only of Robert. But certainly, I ventured, he had outlived her. He had gone on and become one of England’s greatest poets. “Did he write poetry too?” she asked, struck at the thought. “Yes, a very great deal.” She pondered, finger on cheek, then decided how sweet it was—he, the dear man, had loved her so much he had copied her. And she, forced into this promiscuous life, remained true to him, no matter what. And who forced her into it? Her father of course, crude man, who thought of nothing but money. I tried to discover where she could have uncovered such a fund of misinformation. Japanese schools teach some wild things but nothing, I think, so far from any reality as this. Upon this point, however, Momoko was not to be drawn out. She knew what she knew.

If his mutism was the symbolic death of the ego, it helped birth ‘Warszawa’ as an aural space, a city sensually reimagined. The ‘words’ – sula vie delejo – have the open vowel sounds of Japanese and the melodious thickness of Italian, sound objects that emanate from well inside the body and that crystalize in the vocals rather than on the written page, a language of intensity rather than intelligibility. The struggle to complete sentences also resulted in the fragmented ‘Breaking Glass’, the lyric-free ‘Speed of Life’ and ‘A New Career in a New Town’ (the intention was to write lyrics for both), the vibrating wordless chorus of ‘Weeping Wall’, the autistic private language of ‘Subterraneans’, the emotional interjections (‘Ahhhh’) of ‘What in the World’, the circularity of ‘Always Crashing in the Same Car’ and the repetitions of ‘Be My Wife’.

The Present Vocabulary certain obligations blocks my perception another dimension a vision without alteration without wall of illusion blocking my perception forget the presentations no prescription or medication in the creation phase I but all my emotions no intention to tell you about my mistakes pass I represent the present vocabulary be indulgent learn from your mistakes of your misfortune and obliterate your fear be indulgent to guard what is being dissipated is impossible if you do not want to sink you must learn to swim and take strength because his world and become far too fierce I have no intention of being for you a recreation attention to any division of concentration as a vision of illusion the exclusion of all perceptions of emotions without any understanding of good and bad intentions concentration mode, watch out for reverberation, bad reaction, a pawn you want action, go back do your preparation without any interaction no need for explanation no need for presentations no prescription or medication in the creation phase I but all my emotions all these voices a place of disarray in the middle of all these voices the fights are without faith or law in the middle of all these voices no odds to escape and auctanperer you can forget my mind and there to create prisoner never I'm here to show you with the thinking of passing moments and the vocabulary of the present moment for a decent future absent not writing insistent on days much more clement for my present and the mind filled with writing he is not stupid by technology Develop my thoughts often full of words store no time to rest I will not give up no prescription or medication in the creation phase I but all my emotions enclose between two dimensions no need for presentation or tell you about my intentions errors are passed and now I represent the vocabulary present.

le vocabulaire présent certaines obligations bloque ma perception une autre dimension une vision sans altération sans mur d'illusion bloquant ma perception oublier les présentations aucune prescription ni medication en phase création j'y mais toutes mes émotions aucune intention de vous parler de mes erreurs passer je représente le vocabulaire présent soyez indulgent ne regarder pas devant ne regarder pas derrière regarder sur place ne soyer pas vorace fait vous une place as la chaleur de votre sueur apprenez de vos erreurs de votre malheur et oblitérer votre peur soyer indulgent guarder ce qui est amené à se dissiper est impossible si tu ne veux pas couler tu dois apprendre à nager et prenez de la force car se monde et devenu bien trop féroce je n'ai aucunement l'intention d'être pour toi une recréation attention a toute division de la concentration comme une vision d'illusion l'exclusion de toutes perceptions des émotions sans aucune compréhension des bonnes et des mauvaises intentions mode concentration, attention à la reverberation, de mauvaise réaction, un pion tu veux de l'action, retourne faire ta preparation sans aucune interaction aucun besoin d'explication pas besoin de présentations aucune prescription ni medication en phase création j'y mais toutes mes émotions toutes ces voix un endroit empreint au désarroi au milieu de toutes ces voix les combats sont sans foi, ni loi au milieu de toutes ces voix aucun cote pour s'échapper se coucher et auctanperer tu peux oublier mon esprit et là pour cree prisonnier jamais je suis là pour te montrer avec les penser des moments passer et le vocabulaire de l'instant présent pour un futur décent absent non écrivant insistant sur des jours bien plus clement pour mon présent et l'esprit rempli d'écrit il n'est pas abruti par de la technologie Élaborer de ma penser souvent plein de mots entreposer pas le temps de me reposer je ne vais pas abandonner où me dérober aucune prescription ni medication en phase création j'y mais toutes mes émotions enfermer entre deux dimensions aucun besoin de présentation ou de te parler de mes intentions des erreurs sont passé et maintenant je représente le vocabulaire présent.

FAKE LOVE” is not, as the title would suggest, about fake, or false, love. As the opening lyrics convey, the song is about the intentions and concerns of a person hiding their pain before the one they love, trying to show them only the best of themselves. On the surface, these lyrics might appear to tell a universal story of the pain of love, but they also represent the BTS members’ minds at the time, standing before ARMY.

I must be a writer of words, and nothing else. … I do not like writing about words, because then I often use bad and wrong and stale and woolly words. What I like to do is to treat words as a craftsman does his wood or stone or what-have-you, to hew, carve, mould, coil, polish and plane them into patterns, sequences, sculptures, fugues of sound expressing some lyrical impulse, some spiritual doubt or conviction, some dimly-realised truth I must try to reach and realise. … I am a painstaking, conscientious, involved and devious craftsman in words, however unsuccessful the result so often appears, and to whatever wrong uses I may apply my technical paraphernalia, I use everything and anything to make my poems work and move them in the directions I want to… … I, myself do not read poetry for anything but pleasure. I read only the poems I like. This means, of course, that I have to read a lot of poems I don't before I find the ones I do, but, when I do find the ones I do, then all I can say is, 'Here they are', and read them to myself for pleasure. Read the poems you like reading. Don't bother whether they're 'important', or if they'll live. What does it matter what poetry is, after all? If you want a definition of poetry, say: 'Poetry is what makes me laugh or cry or yawn, what makes my toenails twinkle, what makes me want to do this or that or nothing', and let it go at that. All that matters about poetry is the enjoyment of it, however tragic it may be. All that matters is the eternal movement behind it, the vast undercurrents of human grief, folly, pretension, exaltation, or ignorance, however unlofty the intention of the poem. You can tear a poem apart to see what makes it technically tick, and say to yourself, when the works are laid out before you, the vowels, the consonants, the rhymes or rhythms, 'Yes, this is it. This is why the poems moves me so. It is because of the craftsmanship.' But you're back again where you began. You're back with the mystery of having been moved by words. The best craftsmanship always leaves holes and gaps in the works of the poem so that something that is not in the poem can creep, crawl, flash or thunder in.

FAKE LOVE" is not, as the title would suggest, about fake, or false, love. As the opening lyrics convey, the song is about the intentions and concerns of a person hiding their pain before the one they love, trying to show them only the best of themselves. On the surface, these lyrics might appear to tell a universal story of the pain of love, but they also represent the BTS members' minds at the time, standing before ARMY.

broken praise job Lyrics from Music Inspired by The Story If one more person takes my hand And tries to say they understand, Tells me there's a bigger plan that I'm not meant to see. If one more person dares suggest That I held something unconfessed, Tries to make the dots connect from righteousness to easy street… Well I, I won't deny that I've relied on some assumptions. A man's honest life entitles him to something, But who am I to make demands of the God of Abraham? And who are you that you would choose to answer me with mercy new? How many more will wander past To find me here among the ashes? Will you hold me? Will you stay So I can raise this broken praise to you? Who else will see my suffering As one more opportunity To educate; to help me see all my flawed theology? If one more well-intentioned friend tries to tie up my loose ends Hoping to, with rug and broom, sweep awkward moments from the room… But I, I can't forget that I have begged just like a madman For my chance to die and never have to face the morning. But you were the One who filled my cup And you were the One who let it spill. So blessed be your holy name if you never fill it up again. If this is where my story ends, just give me one more breath to say hallelujah.

Words work as release—well-oiled doors opening and closing between intention, gesture. A pulse in a neck, the shiftiness of the hands, an unconscious blink, the conversations you have with your eyes translate everything and nothing. What will be needed, what goes unfelt, unsaid—what has been duplicated, redacted here, redacted there, altered to hide or disguise—words encoding the bodies they cover. And despite everything the body remains. Occasionally it is interesting to think about the outburst if you would just cry out— To know what you’ll sound like is worth noting—

Rob Young, in his essential Electric Eden, describes as Barrett being “strangely pushed and pulled between nostalgia for the secret garden of a child’s imagination and the space-age futurism of interstellar overdrive.” Barrett was channeling a spirit that was trying to pierce the veil between these worlds, and while this nostalgia and futurism, as Young puts it, seem opposed, they are actually two ideas at the heart of magic. The practice of magic is one requiring a link to the past and a vision of the future. Barrett added this directly to the lyrics of his songs and his live performances, experimenting with light and sound in an attempt to work the audience into a trance. The method is new, but the intention is ancient.

Bad Trash ( I Don't Like the Sound of That) Runs in the family R u n s in the f a m i l y- No, that's an atrocity you won't hear from me I don't like the sound of that Not lyin' in a mouse trap- I'm a mofo' sassy cat I don't clean no d i r t y rat No, not my reality Said not M Y reality- Don't shine shit in front of me and call it my reality! I don't like the sound of that Cruel intentions get tires flat I say what will shine for me I say what will bleed for me I call out the trash to me Bad trash always dies for me Clawed out my own reality The top from the back alley I don't run in the family I run far from the alley Calling all my sour soulmates- Recovering a l l e y c a ts You all clean up so good now No bad, bad trash, just LoVe pats! No bad trash, just LoVe pats

I argued again for an American strike on Iran’s nuclear facilities. America could still stop Iran from developing atomic bombs that would endanger America, Israel and the peace of the entire world. An American action now would give an enormous boost to the standing of the US and its president. Obama’s response floored me and Itzik Molcho, who sat beside me. “Bibi,” he said, “Nobody likes Goliath. I don’t want to be an eight-hundred-pound gorilla strutting on the world stage. For too long we acted that way. We need to lead in a different way.” I was stunned. In the Middle East as I knew it, with Iran racing to nuclear weapons, and with the shifting geopolitical balance toward Asia, I would want to be a 1,200-pound gorilla, not an 800-pound one. Often when I met officials of the Obama administration they waxed lyrical about the marvels of soft power. Culture, values, even Hollywood can do wonders to change the world, they said. “Soft power is good,” I acknowledged, “but hard power is even better.” By hard power I meant the judicious use of formidable military or economic power, or both. The values of individual liberty and national freedom give meaning and strength to free societies. But they are not enough. Power has the unfortunate quality of not being limited to the morally superior and the well intentioned. If malign forces amass enough of it and have the will to use it, they will overcome the less well-armed forces of good, especially if the good lack the tenacity to fight. Being a moral people won’t save you from conquest and carnage, which was the history of the Jewish people for two thousand years. Being perfect victims who harmed no one, we were perfectly moral. Being utterly powerless, we were led to the slaughter again and again. The rise of Zionism was meant to correct this flaw by giving the Jewish people the power to defend themselves. Enhancing this capacity was the central mission of my years in office.

Neither of us had the slightest intention of dancing, but we’d chosen a song for the occasion anyway called ‘Closer’ by Nine Inch Nails. I hadn’t really thought it through properly, because the lyric in the chorus is ‘I want to fuck you like an animal’. My nan was not best pleased.

Grandfather please stand on the shoulders of my father while he’s deep‐sea fishing Song by Lana Del Rey Overview Lyrics Videos Listen Lyrics Three white butterflies to know you're near I know they think that it took somebody else To make me beautiful, beautiful As they intended me to be But they're wrong I know they think that it took thousands of people To put me together again like an experiment Some big man behind the scenes So I am Frankenstein, black dreams into my song But they're wrong God, if you're near me, send me three white butterflies Or an owl to know know you're listening, sitting while I'm drinking Grandfather, please stand on the shoulders of my father While he's deep-sea fishing for sharks in the Pacific 'Cause I'm good on spirit, warm-bodied A fallible deity wrapped up in white I'm folk, I'm jazz, I'm blue, I'm green Regrettably you're so a white woman But I have good intentions if even I'm one of the last ones If you don't believe me, my poetry and my melodies Feel it in your bones I have good intentions even if I'm one of the last ones Ah, yeah, ah, yeah, ah, yeah Grandfather, please stand on the shoulders of my father While he's deep-sea fishing for all the things he's wishing God, if you're near me, send me three white butterflies Or a map to know you're fishing, impart on me your wisdom It took somebody else to make me beautiful Wonderful As they intended me to be But they're wrong Three white butterflies to know you're near

Words work as release—well-oiled doors opening and closing between intention, gesture. A pulse in a neck, the shiftiness of the hands, an unconscious blink, the conversations you have with your eyes translate everything and nothing. What will be needed, what goes unfelt, unsaid—what has been duplicated, redacted here, redacted there, altered to hide or disguise—words encoding the bodies they cover. And despite everything the body remains.