Lyric Inspirational Quotes

Get up, stand up, Stand up for your rights. Get up, stand up, Don't give up the fight.

Don't tell me the sky's the limit when there are footprints on the moon.

He not busy being born is busy dying.

You have every right to a beautiful life.

Love me or hate me, i swear it won't make or break me.

Skies are crying, I am watching, Catching teardrops in my hands. Only silence, as it's ending, Like we never had a chance. Do you have to make me feel Like there's nothing left of me?

The heart may freeze, or it can burn. The pain will ease and I can learn. There is no future, there is no past. I live this moment as, my last.

As the smoke clears, I awaken, And untangle you from me. Would it make you feel better To watch me, while I bleed? All my windows still are broken, But I'm standing on my feet.

Why do you write like you're running out of time?

When I find myself in times of trouble, mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be. And in my hour of darkness she is standing right in front of me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be. Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be. Whisper words of wisdom, let it be. And when the broken hearted people living in the world agree, there will be an answer, let it be. For though they may be parted there is still a chance that they will see, there will be an answer. let it be. Let it be, let it be, ..... And when the night is cloudy, there is still a light, that shines on me, shine until tomorrow, let it be. I wake up to the sound of music, mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be. Let it be, let it be, .....

Even in the far future, never forget the you of right now Wherever you are right now, you’re just taking a break

And the worst part is before it gets any better we're heading for a cliff. And in the free fall I will realize I'm better off when I hit the bottom

I am no king, and I am no lord, And I am no soldier at-arms," said he. "I'm none but a harper, and a very poor harper, That am come hither to wed with ye." "If you were a lord, you should be my lord, And the same if you were a thief," said she. "And if you are a harper, you shall be my harper, For it makes no matter to me, to me, For it makes no matter to me." "But what if it prove that I am no harper? That I lied for your love most monstrously?" "Why, then I'll teach you to play and sing, For I dearly love a good harp," said she.

I think there is a song out there to describe just about any situation.

Then came the healing time, hearts started to shine, soul felt so fine, oh what a freeing time it was.

A song and a smile from someone I cared about could be enough to distract me from all that darkness, if only for a little while.

Life is a journey, not a destination; there are no mistakes, just chances we've taken.

When we feel, a kind of lyric is sung in our heart. When we think, a kind of music is played in our mind. In harmony, both create a beautiful symphony of life.

It's a wonderful life if you can find it.

Beyond the picket fences and the oil wells, the happy endings, and the fairy tales, is the reality of shattered lives and broken dreams. We carry on.

Waktu berjalan ke Barat di waktu pagi hari matahari mengikutiku di belakang. Aku berjalan mengikuti bayang-bayangku sendiri yang memanjang di depan. Aku dan matahari tidak bertengkar tentang siapa di antara kami yang telah menciptakan bayang-bayang, aku dan bayang-bayang tidak bertengkar tentang siapa di antara kami yang harus berjalan di depan.

There's 7 billion 46 million people on the planet and most of us have the audacity to think we matter.

Whether we write lyrics or craft legislation, sell homes or teach classes, design spaces or open franchises, prayer is a critical part of the creative process. Don’t just brainstorm; praystorm.

Work It Harder Make It Better Do It Faster, Makes Us stronger More Than Ever Hour After Our Work Is Never Over -Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger, lyrics and music by Daft Punk

I think that our lyrics are definitely dark, but I know for a fact that we pull our inspiration from a million different influences. We listened to everything growing up. Our music isn't just 'opera metal' or 'gothic pop' it's just Evanescence.

The vast open sea at night is a song being written; a rhyme, a mysterious and gentle arpeggiated work of Beethoven. It's sung by the waves as they travel on the face of the ocean, and their lyrics are the rhythm of the pounding surf.

You can't make a fan of everyone. Stay true to your story, characters, music, art or whatever it is you do and fuck everyone else who doesn't like it. Life isn't perfect.

If he can't sleep, how will he ever dream?

Your life is a movie. You are the main character. You say your scripts and act to your lines. Of course you do your lines in each scene. There is a hidden camera and a director who you can ask for help anytime up above.

I'm a wanderess I'm a one night stand Don't belong to no city Don't belong to no man (Note: These lyrics were inspired by Roman Payne's quote from his novel "The Wanderess".)

Written up in marker on a factory sign: I struggle with the feeling that my life isn't mine

Music is the beat of a drum that keeps time with our emotions.

There is also a third kind of madness, which is possession by the Muses, enters into a delicate and virgin soul, and there inspiring frenzy, awakens lyric....But he, who, not being inspired and having no touch of madness in his soul, comes to the door and thinks he will get into the temple by the help of art--he, I say, and his poetry are not admitted; the sane man is nowhere at all when he enters into rivalry with the madman.

Music replays the past memories, awaken our forgotten worlds and make our minds travel.

Cause I am strong and I can prove it And I got my dreams to see me through It's just a mountain, I can move it And with faith enough there's nothing I can't do And I can see the light of a clear blue morning And I can see the light of brand new day I can see the light of a clear blue morning And everything's gonna be all right It's gonna be okay [lyrics from "Light of a Clear Blue Morning"]

I know that that doesn't make even a little bit of sense. That was the point, that beautiful incongruence.

You win some, you learn some.

Pretty's just a pretty word.

The pattern's laid out on the bed With dozens of colors of thread But you've got the needle I guess that's the point in the end

Gotta get up and try.

Don't give up. It's just the weight of the world.

Closing up. Finally spent. You are gone. And now you're moving along. Heavy now. Tears remain. Hard pressed to rest. When all I feel like is a mess. Now, don't you worry your head. You're not my one and only friend. And I don't need you anymore. To leave me bruised and broken on the floor. You left me bruised. You left me broken. You left me bruised. You left me broken.

Pick a star on the dark horizon and follow the light.

When all you wanted was to be wanted, you wish you could go back and tell yourself what you know now.

Works of art are not born in flashes of inspiration but in daily fidelity.

It may not feel too classy, begging just to eat But you know who does that? Lassie, and she always gets a treat So you wonder what your part is Because you're homeless and depressed But home is where the heart is So your real home's in your chest Everyone's a hero in their own way Everyone's got villains they must face They're not as cool as mine But folks you know it's fine to know your place Everyone's a hero in their own way In their own not-that-heroic way So I thank my girlfriend Penny Yeah, we totally had sex She showed me there's so many different muscles I can flex There's the deltoids of compassion, There's the abs of being kind It's not enough to bash in heads You've got to bash in minds Everyone's a hero in their own way Everyone's got something they can do Get up go out and fly Especially that guy, he smells like poo Everyone's a hero in their own way You and you and mostly me and you I'm poverty's new sheriff And I'm bashing in the slums A hero doesn't care if you're a bunch of scary alcoholic bums Everybody! Everyone's a hero in their own way Everyone can blaze a hero's trail Don't worry if it's hard If you're not a friggin 'tard you will prevail Everyone's a hero in their own way Everyone's a hero in their...

In times of youth, drinking is better. With the joyful, linking is better. The world is a mere temporal inn; With the shipwrecked, sinking is better.

If the bombs go off the sun will still be shining, because I've heard it said that every mushroom cloud has a silver lining.

Jason took me by the shoulders—not out of anger, or in a clinging way, but as a brother. “Promise me one thing. Whatever happens, when you get back to Olympus, when you’re a god again, remember. Remember what it’s like to be human.” A few weeks ago, I would have scoffed. Why would I want to remember any of this? At best, if I were lucky enough to reclaim my divine throne, I would recall this wretched experience like a scary B-movie that had finally ended. I would walk out of the cinema into the sunlight, thinking Phew! Glad that’s over. Now, however, I had some inkling of what Jason meant. I had learned a lot about human frailty and human strength. I felt…different toward mortals, having been one of them. If nothing else, it would provide me with some excellent inspiration for new song lyrics!

Incredible. It is just incredible that you can notice something like that when your face is so cold you can't feel it anymore, and you know perfectly well you are surrounded by death, and the only way to stay alive is to endure the howling wind and hold your course. And still the sky is beautiful.

The only thing predictable about life is It’s unpredictability Anyone can be anything You can be everything

I’ve been trying to stay real and true and proud of who I am, all those ideals of how to look I’ve been trying not to care. But I’m still holding my breath, I ‘m still watching every step. I’m still tip-toeing away, when I’m getting to ashamed of myself. I don’t want to be your letdown, I’m scared like hell I’m not enough. I don’t wanna be your failure anymore. — The Glass Child, Letdown

Got your fingerprints as evidence all on my body Put your right hand on the book and you were found guilty I can’t wait forever but that’s how it’s gonna be For me they’ll never be Case Closed

So if you have today you should say all that you have to say

I dance to the beat of the earth the memories are the lyrics I write nature leads my soul through this existence I call life.

I could crawl inside the lyrics and know each note intimately. They would claw at my soul, until I could no longer fight the emotions that took me to a place I couldn't experience. But, it was the possibility that made every verse a heart filled prediction and every beat a direction to follow.

Music is a great healer.

I'm in love with New York. It matches my mood. I'm not overwhelmed. It is the suitable scene for my ever ever heightened life. I love the proportions, the amplitude, the brilliance, the polish, the solidity. I look up at Radio City insolently and love it. It's all great, and Babylonian. Broadway at night. Cellophane. The newness. The vitality. True, it is only physical. But it's inspiring. Just bring your own contents, and you create a sparkle of the highest power. I'm not moved, not speechless. I stand straight, tough and I meet the impact. I feel the glow and the dancing in everything. The radio music in the taxis, scientific magic, which can all be used lyrically. That's my last word. Give New York to a poet. He can use it. It can be poetized. Or maybe that's mania of mine, to poetize. I live lightly, smoothly, actively, ears or eyes wide open, alert, oiled! I feel the glow and the dancing in every thing and the tempo is like that of my blood. I'm at once beyond, over and in New York, tasting it fully.

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!

Sometimes we focus too much on the lyrics that we forget to dance to the music. And sometimes we dance to the music and don't listen to the lyrics. Let the rhythm guide you. Let the lyrics inspire you.

Life teaches us to Bend like the willow during a storm Glide like an eagle Under the sun mighty and warm But to stand together No matter the weather Unity is all for the better

Perhaps the One knows that if I travel without anything else to rely on, I’ll learn to rely more deeply on Him. (Susan Mitchell in THE DELIVERER)

When the lyrical muse sings the creative pen dances.

Everybody Hurts When the day is long and the night, the night is yours alone, When you're sure you've had enough of this life, well hang on Don't let yourself go, 'cause everybody cries and everybody hurts sometimes Sometimes everything is wrong. Now it's time to sing along When your day is night alone, (hold on, hold on) If you feel like letting go, (hold on) When you think you've had too much of this life, well hang on 'Cause everybody hurts. Take comfort in your friends Everybody hurts. Don't throw your hand. Oh, no. Don't throw your hand If you feel like you're alone, no, no, no, you are not alone If you're on your own in this life, the days and nights are long, When you think you've had too much of this life to hang on Well, everybody hurts sometimes, Everybody cries. And everybody hurts sometimes And everybody hurts sometimes. So, hold on, hold on Hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on Everybody hurts. You are not alone

I've been worryin' that we all, live our lives, in the confines of fear

You can go the distance You can go the mile You can walk straight through hell with a smile

Those who have suffered understand suffering and thereby extend their hand.

The whole world's a canvas for our sketches Horizons as far as the mind stretches A work of art with soft edges Waiting to come alive Now's the time

And the stars look very different today.

I'm also a book nerd so aside from my life and my opinions, you could say my lyrics are inspired in some sense by the writings of Guy Debord, John Berryman, Georges Bataille, T.S. Eliot, Albert Camus, Bukowski, Artaud, Derrick Jensen and bunch of other people.

Music teaches us about lyricism in writing, a delicate turn of phrase, selectiveness with words, rhythmic passages. Most of all, music, like good writing, touches our emotions with cadences that slip in like a subtle visitor, familiar and known before.

Ascend, may you find so resistance Just know that you made such a difference All you leave behind will live to the end The cycle of suffering goes on But memories of you stay strong Some day I too will fly and find you again

So when you have today You should say all that you have to say

That life can change, that we're not stuck in vain...

Silence guides the mind...

Cause I'll be by your side wherever you fall In the dead of night whenever you call And please don't fight these hands that are holding you My hands are holding you

There are moments in every relationship that define when two people start to fall in love. A first glance A first smile A first kiss A first fall… (I remove the Darth Vader house shoes from my satchel and look down at them.) You were wearing these during one of those moments. One of the moments I first started to fall in love with you. The way you gave me butterflies that morning Had absolutely nothing to do with anyone else, and everything to do with you. I was falling in love with you that morning because of you. (I take the next item out of the satchel. When I pull it out and look up, she brings her hands to her mouth in shock.) This ugly little gnome With his smug little grin… He's the reason I had an excuse to invite you into my house. Into my life. You took a lot of aggression out on him over those next few months. I would watch from my window as you would kick him over every time you walked by him. Poor little guy. You were so tenacious. That feisty, aggressive, strong-willed side of you…. The side of you that refused to take crap from this concrete gnome? The side of you that refused to take crap from me? I fell in love with that side of you because of you. (I set the gnome down on the stage and grab the CD) This is your favorite CD ‘Layken’s shit.’ Although now I know you intended for shit to be possessive, rather than descriptive. The banjo started playing through the speakers of your car and I immediately recognized my favorite band. Then when I realized it was your favorite band, too? The fact that these same lyrics inspired both of us? I fell in love with that about you. That had absolutely nothing to do with anyone else. I fell in love with that about you because of you. (I take a slip of paper out of the satchel and hold it up. When I look at her, I see Eddie slide her a napkin. I can’t tell from up here, but that can only mean she’s crying.) This is a receipt I kept. Only because the item I purchased that night was on the verge of ridiculous. Chocolate milk on the rocks? Who orders that? You were different, and you didn’t care. You were being you. A piece of me fell in love with you at that moment, because of you. This? (I hold up another sheet of paper.) This I didn’t really like so much. It’s the poem you wrote about me. The one you titled 'mean?' I don’t think I ever told you… but you made a zero. And then I kept it to remind myself of all the things I never want to be to you. (I pull her shirt from my bag. When I hold it into the light, I sigh into the microphone.) This is that ugly shirt you wear. It doesn’t really have anything to do with why I fell in love with you. I just saw it at your house and thought I’d steal it.

We're all made the same but then born to change. Which then don't make us the same.

A mother's gentle love, an elder's wise words Same heart and soul, no matter where in the world So in this one world, we got one chance, under this one sky Lets come together for all mankind Let's make this earth from house to home Safe for every child to roam

Time is always new, for dreams to come true Destiny is yours, to do what you do Change is different, but only for awhile Free will it always, brings in a whole new style Competition makes, the fight all worth your while

Complete - Yourself! Others may only enhance your completeness.

Now there’s a joy inside I can’t contain But even perfect days can end in rain And though it’s pouring down I see You through the clouds Shining on my face.

Straighten up your posture and walk ‘Cause in the end you’re unstoppable Stand up wherever you go You’ll make it with no trouble

My God calls to me in the morning dew The power of the universe knows my name Gave me a song to sing and sent me on my way I raise my voice for justice I believe -I Remember, I Believe

It was a postcard. 'Greetings from the Land of 10,000 Lakes,' it said on the front. Park turned it over and recognized her scratchy handwriting. It filled his head with song lyrics. He sat up. He smiled. Something heavy and winged took off from his chest. Eleanor hadn't written him a letter, it was a postcard. Just three words long.

The most profound voice of any musician I have ever heard. Joe (Strummer) took his message to the world, and the world listened. He managed to influence more than one generation with his innovative and determined manner, and I am not alone in repeatedly turning to his thoughts and lyrics when searching for inspiration. The Clash was the greatest rock band. They wrote the rule book for U2.

John Calvin called the Book of Psalms ‘an anatomy of all parts of the soul.’ All the range of emotions are expressed; the Psalms weave an emotional fabric for the human soul. These inspired lyrics take us by the hand and train us in proper emotion. They lead us to emotional maturity.

sometimes music isn't just a bunch of sounds and lyrics, sometimes it's more than that: a time machine...

Yeah, you can be the greatest You can be the best You can be the King Kong banging on your chest

Yeah, do it for your people Do it for your pride How are you ever gonna know if you never even try? Do it for your country Do it for your name

There's one thing we're all waiting for, it's Peace on earth and end to war, it's the miracle we need... The Miracle!

Music is awaken of soul.

Music; worship and prayer to God.

Flirting and foreplay came easy to Erica. Before she’d turned twenty, Erato awakened inside her. Erato was the Greek Muse of Lyrics… and Erotic Poetry. She had a gift for inspiring passion.

Told me to play it cool I break the rules, I’m breaking hearts in two Want me to make the rules or play the fool, it ain’t that hard to choose Take apart the “do”s and “don’t”s and lose the “won’t”s I’m getting mine Mine’s is mine, yours is mine This is mine, get in line

There is a third form of possession or madness, of which the Muses are the source. This seizes a tender, virgin soul and stimulates it to rapt passionate expression, especially in lyric poetry, glorifying the countless mighty deeds of ancient times for the instruction of posterity. But if any man comes to the gates of poetry without the madness of the Muses, persuaded that skill alone will make him a good poet, then shall he and his works of sanity with him be brought to nought by the poetry of madness, and behold, their place is nowhere to be found.

Many Americans first fell in love with the poetry of the thirteenth century teacher and spiritual leader Jelalludin Rumi during the early 1990s when the unparalleled lyrical grace, philosophical brilliance, and spiritual daring of his work took modern Western readers completely by surprise. The impact of its soulful beauty and the depth of its profound humanity were so intense that they reportedly prompted numerous individuals to spontaneously compose poetry.

The houses have been condemned on Memory Lane I’m tired of this struggle that leaves everything the same I’ve tried so hard to make it work that I’m dying inside Well, you can take my past But you can’t have my tomorrow Promises that remain promises are useless and they’re cheap I wish I could put a price on words so I could make them keep I put so much faith in you I lost all my faith in me Well, you can take my past But you can’t have my tomorrow I’m giving up on giving up I can’t leave it all to prayer ‘Cause the first step in getting better is knowing what’s not there You said you’d make it better and that just makes it worse Well, you can take my past But you can’t have my tomorrow Yes, I want my life to last So you can’t have my tomorrow No, you can’t have my tomorrow

It is possible for music to be labeled "Christian" and be terrible music. It could lack creativity and inspiration. The lyrics could be recycled cliches. That "Christian" band could actually be giving Jesus a bad name because they aren't a great band. It is possible for a movie to be a "Christian" movie and to be a terrible movie. It may actually desecrate the art form in its quality and storytelling and craft.

She lifted me up when I was down She showed me the way when I was lost She turned the darkness into light My pain and anger it has faded away and I can live again Just got to have a little faith I have just got to have a little faith I need to have faith

Let's make this earth from house to home Safe for every child to roam Full of dreams, hope and love This is what our hearts are made of Let's bring peace to this world No more sadness, hate or hurt Only kindness, compassion, and unity For the sake of all humanity

It may be that those who care for poetry lost little by his death. Fluent in prose, he never wrote verse for the sake of making a poem. When a refrain of image haunted him, the lyric that resulted was the inspiration, as he himself said, of a passion, not of a purpose.

Try to knock us down, we'll get up every time. "24/Seven

I was not born to drown

Believe, Believe, Believe. Anything is very possible.

All dreams are possible.

You can be a master Don't wait for luck Dedicate yourself and you gon' find yourself Standing in the hall of fame

Be students Be teachers Be politicians Be preachers Be believers Be astronauts Be champions Be truth seekers

You shine bright, in the night Like a star, lit so bright It's your story right now Say it loud, say it proud It's your glory right now So stand up, take a bow

Everything must change, nothing and no one goes unchanged.

If life is a song, you must be the superb lyrics to a sweet melody.

I still fall on my face sometimes and I Can't color inside the lines 'cause I'm perfectly incomplete I'm still working on my masterpiece

In lyric, in epic tale, in stubborn retelling of what happened, or did not happen, but should have happened, or still might—we live past ourselves and those we have lost but can never lose.

Tarot is a lyrical language of the soul's encounter with the Universe. It arises freely, and like the most dignified dance, allows us to express ourselves in motion to the music of the divine. The re-arrangement and reading of the deck is as sacred as the most religious ritual or act of love. Treasure it. Trust it. Let it divine you.

Oh what force on earth could be weaker than the feeble strength of one" like me remembering the way it could have been. Help me with this barricade. No surrender. No defeat. A spectre's haunting Albert Street. I am your pamphleteer.

From this distance of forgetting and reclaiming, I had more mercy on myself. I had poured my heart into serving. I could see now what I had been blind to then, that the One treasured my service, regardless of human measures of success. (Linette)

She breathes music. Lives it and bleeds it. Her headphones have become her heartbeat. Her lyrics are her life. Music is her outlet of pain, love, and rage. Every note unplayed is another minute unlived. Every song unsung is another moment lost forever. She relies on music to show her the way, make fantasies real and to ease the pain of everyday life. Each day is another chance to create pure artistry. Music is the reason she is who she is...the good and the bad. Her life without it is like a bird without wings or lungs with out air. Life is for the living. Death is for the dead. Her life is her music. Her death will be the note unsaid.

Over thinking, over analyzing separates the body from the mind. Withering my intuition leaving all these opportunities behind. Feed my will to feel this moment urging me to cross the line. Reaching out to embrace the random. Reaching out to embrace whatever may come. I embrace my desire to feel the rhythm, to feel connected enough to step aside and weep like a widow to feel inspired, to fathom the power, to witness the beauty, to bathe in the fountain, to swing on the spiral of our divinity and still be a human. With my feet upon the ground I lose myself between the sounds and open wide to suck it in. I feel it move across my skin. I'm reaching up and reaching out. I'm reaching for the random or what ever will bewilder me. And following our will and wind we may just go where no one's been. We'll ride the spiral to the end and may just go where no one's been. Spiral out. Keep going...

If you ask how I am then I’ll just say inspired

About a stone-cast from the wall A sluice with blacken'd waters slept, And o'er it many, round and small, The cluster'd marish-mosses crept.

Ahh, the salvation of souls, But wisdom we had not For these people had neither King nor Lord And bowed to no one And they had lived in their own liberty - Amerigo

The lyricism of marginality may find inspiration in the image of the outlaw, the great social nomad, who prowls on the confines of a docile, frightened order.

Living your dream is hard work. Go on and try it. You might like it.

Got a Vonnegut punch for your Atlas Shrugs!

Life is as long as you live it.

Everybody has to sell yeah, and everything has gone to hell yeah.

I don´t need you to believe in me/I know how to change my destiny/Sit down, about to rewrite our history

Cuz even a gangsta rapper can find redemption For the sins committed before revelation.

There ain't no such thing as the devil that's just god when he's drunk.

Music is breath of life.

We might be hollow, but we're brave

Lyrics paved my teenage route to loving words. I take those passionate mini-stories with me everywhere.

Just like how countless stars did, always in the same spot you will shine brightly on your own

It's a long way to the top, If you wanna rock n' roll

The morning had started. Someone else was out there, threading the day into cloth.

When music hits you, you dance.

Artists have the ability 2 changes lives with a single per4mance.

Those who mind, don't matter Those who matter, don't mind If you don't catch what I'm throwing then I leave you behind

Life shouldn't stop just when it's getting started.

The look in all their eyes Is to breathe in, to be in The good grace of that Godlight It's to have it in your hands The one thing you wanted all your life

You know what I love? The spaces between I love you. The tap of your fork against the plate and how my cup of wine clicks against our table. The scratchy voice coming from the radio in the other room. The quiet sound of your hand reaching across the table and whispering over mine. How your voice sounds like your mouth on the back of my neck. The soft murmur of our easy conversation. Between these quiet Tuesday night routines, following every comma and right after every pause for breath, is I, love, and you. In the middle of every I love you is a sink full of dishes, whisper of socked feet tangled in white sheets, and gentle kisses against curved cheeks. We lyric ourselves into the laundry that needs to be finished, into the ends of every smile that follows me repeating your name. We write ourselves into the grocery bags we need to carry, the cracks running up our rented walls, the sides of the bed we choose to drag up the sails of heavy eyed dreams. Like the spaces between our fingers, in the spaces between I, love, and you, we wait. The in-betweens have always been my favorite.

It is currently said that hope goes with youth, and lends to youth its wings of a butterfly; but I fancy that hope is the last gift given to man, and the only gift not given to youth. Youth is pre-eminently the period in which a man can be lyric, fanatical, poetic; but youth is the period in which a man can be hopeless. The end of every episode is the end of the world. But the power of hoping through everything, the knowledge that the soul survives its adventures, that great inspiration comes to the middle-aged; God has kept that good wine until not. It is from the backs of the elderly gentlemen that the wings of the butterfly should burst.

California loving smooth as the ocean tide Carefree soaking up your love like sunshine Crazy for ya feeling like a song with no rhyme I’m falling for you like sun in the springtime I’m so glad I found my California loving

Water, Walking, Walking on water. Walking, Walking on for years and years and years. Taking it into my head, Living by the right lines, Reading what the very man said. Water, I'm walking, Walking on water, Walking, Walking on. Lying on eleven years, Taking it into my head, Mary, Mary drop me softly. Been reading what your very man said; Lying on eleven years Taking it into my head. Leave my clothes on the beach; I'm walking down into the sea. Prove it to me.

Elizabeth Bachinsky, Darren Bifford, Jason Camelot, Rachel Cyr, Tara Flanagan, Lilly Fiorentino, John Goldbach, David McGimpsey, Evan Munday, Sachiko Murakami, Ian Orti, Marisa Grizenko, Christina Palassio, Mike Spry, Darren Wershler.

I don't know if You can hear me, Or if You're even there, I don't know if You will listen To a gypsy's prayer, Yes, I know I'm just an outcast, I shouldn't speak to You But still I see Your face and wonder Were You once an outcast too?

When grief comes,.... You can either let it blind you with an insane pain, a rage beyond words..Or, you can transmute it into something so profound that it takes the shape of poetry, prose, or timeless lyrics so they reveal to you, the pathway to growth..

Will and Lake, Love is the most beautiful thing in the world. Unfortunately, it's also one of the hardest things in the world to hold on to, and one of the easiest to throw away. Neither of you has a mother or a father to go to for relationship advice anymore. Neither of you has anyone to go to for a shoulder to cry on when things get touch, and they will get touch. Neither of you has someone to go to when you just want to share the funny, or the happy, or the heartache. You are both at a disadvantage when it comes to this aspect of love. You both only have each other, and because of this, you will have to work harder at building a strong foundation for your future together. You are not only each other's love; you are also one another's sole confidant. I hand wrote some things onto strips of paper and folded them into stars. It might be an inspirational quote, an inspiring lyric, or just some downright good parental advice. I don't want you to open one and read it until you truly feel you need it. If you have a bad day, if the two of you fight, or if you just need something to lift your spirits...that's what these are for. You can open one together; you can open one alone. I just want there to be something both of you can go to, if and when you ever need it. Will...thank you. Thank you for coming into our lives. So much of the pain and worry I've been feeling has been alleviated by the mere fact that I know my daughter is loved by you....You are a wonderful man, and you've been a wonderful friend to me. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for loving my daughter like you do. You respect her, you don't need to change for her, and you inspire her. You can never know how grateful I have been for you, and how much peace you have brought my soul. And Lake; this is me-nudging your shoulder, giving you my approval. You couldn't have picked anyone better to love if I would have hand-picked him myself. Also, thank you for being so determined to keep our family together. You were right about Kel needing to be with you. Thank you for helping me see that. And remember when things get touch for him, please teach him how to stop caring pumpkins... I love you both and with you a lifetime of happiness together. -Julia "And all around my memories, you dance..." ~The Avett Brothers

Everybody's looking for that something One thing that makes it all complete You'll find it in the strangest places Places you never knew it could be Some find it in the face of their children Some find it in their lover's eyes Who can deny the joy it brings? When you've found that special thing You're flying without wings Some find it sharing every morning Some in their solitary nights You'll find it in the words of others A simple line can make you laugh or cry You'll find it in the deepest friendship The kind you cherish all your life And when you know how much that means You've found that special thing You're flying without wings So impossible as they may seem You've got to fight for every dream ‘Cause who's to know which one you let go Would have made you complete

His eyes are cold and restless His wounds have almost healed And she'd give half of Texas Just to change the way he feels She knows his love's in Tulsa And she knows he's gonna go Well it ain't no woman flesh and blood It's that damned old rodeo Well it's bulls and blood It's dust and mud It's the roar of a Sunday crowd It's the white in his knuckles The gold in the buckle He'll win the next go 'round It's boots and chaps It's cowboy hats It's spurs and latigo It's the ropes and the reins And the joy and the pain And they call the thing rodeo She does her best to hold him When his love comes to call But his need for it controls him And her back's against the wall And it's So long girl I'll see you When it's time for him to go You know the woman wants her cowboy Like he wants his rodeo

I’ve long believed that the gods give us the music we’re supposed to hear at the times we’re supposed to hear it, because all music, even lyrical and regardless of language performed in, is in and of itself an inherently magical language that can, at proper times, speak to the soul.

Lyrics start floating in my head. It happens when I'm on a hit. Murder is inspirational gold for me. Prison holds flesh that's washed up in sin… knock knock, bitch, now let the devil in… I'm a cannibal, motherfucking Hannibal, Lector, bounce up from this sector before my hellhounds eat ya…

As I listened to the lyrics – truly listened, instead of just letting them float over me – the almost-pleasant feelings went away. I’d always thought this was an inspirational song about God or something, because of all the hallelujahs. Only it turned out there were words before and after the hallelujahs, and those words were hardly uplifting.

The Proctors relied on geometry and Jacobean literature, and I used the poems of Emily Dickinson, but it was Fleetwood Mac who inspired my mother’s gramarye. There wasn’t much to distinguish between William Shakespeare, Emily Dickinson, and Stevie Nicks. They were all bards, after all, with magic in their pens. I showed Gwyneth the annotated lyrics. “She hid it in plain sight—in the words of her favorite songs. This is what she used to refresh old spells and keep them sharp.” Gwyneth gasped. “Rebecca used music?” “Apparently,” I replied, running my fingers across the underlining in “I Don’t Want to Know.” She’d written A powerful method for uncovering old secrets next to Finally baby / The truth has come down now.

Lyrics. Oh my God. I pull out my phone and begin furiously jotting them down. Keane watches me for a moment. “Lyrics?” he says. “Mmm hmm.” “About Violet?” “Uh huh. Shh, Peenie.” “Oh, man, you’re a goner, aren’t you? In your world, a girl who inspires lyrics is even hotter than a girl who can suck an orange through a garden hose.” “Shut up, dude. I need to listen.

I finish tweaking my lyrics, then title the song 'Half-way Through the Crossfade.' I record myself playing it on the keyboard and singing it. It feels good. It feels right.I'm saying my truth, and I'm not afraid people won't like it. In fact, I hope it makes people think. I hope it's a light in the dark for anyone who feels like they have to be one thing or the other when both can be true.

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!

... but I love language. It is a living, breathing, evolving thing, and language has power. Whether in a song lyric, a poem, a speech, or a simple conversation, we’ve all experienced words that resonate with us. They may make us recall a powerful moment, inspire us, move us, or perhaps, comfort us…. But at the same time, we don’t think in words. We think in pictures. If I say the word ‘dog’ to you, you aren’t picturing the letters, d-o-g, you’re picturing a dog from your memory...

THE ANTHEM OF HOPE Tiny footprints in mud, metal scraps among thistles Child who ambles barefooted through humanity’s war An Elderflower in mud, landmines hidden in bristles Blood clings to your feet, your wee hands stiff and sore You who walk among trenches, midst our filth and our gore Box of crayons in hand, your tears tumble like crystals Gentle, scared little boy, at the heel of Hope Valley, The grassy heel of Hope Valley. And the bombs fall-fall-fall Down the slopes of Hope Valley Bayonets cut-cut-cut Through the ranks of Hope Valley Napalm clouds burn-burn-burn All who fight in Hope Valley, All who fall in Hope Valley. Bullets fly past your shoulder, fireflies light the sky Child who digs through the trenches for his long sleeping father You plant a kiss on his forehead, and you whisper goodbye Vain corpses, brave soldiers, offered as cannon fodder Nothing is left but a wall; near its pallor you gather Crayon ready, you draw: the memory of a lie Kind, sad little boy, sketching your dream of Hope Valley Your little dream of Hope Valley. Missiles fly-fly-fly Over the fields of Hope Valley Carabines shoot-shoot-shoot The brave souls of Hope Valley And the tanks shell-shell-shell Those who toiled for Hope Valley, Those who died for Hope Valley. In the light of gunfire, the little child draws the valley Every trench is a creek; every bloodstain a flower No battlefield, but a garden with large fields ripe with barley Ideations of peace in his dark, final hour And so the child drew his future, on the wall of that tower Memories of times past; your tiny village lush alley Great, brave little boy, the future hope of Hope Valley The only hope of Hope Valley. And the grass grows-grows-grows On the knolls of Hope Valley Daffodils bloom-bloom-bloom Across the hills of Hope Valley The midday sun shines-shines-shines On the folk of Hope Valley On the dead of Hope Valley From his Aerodyne fleet The soldier faces the carnage Uttering words to the fallen He commends their great courage Across a wrecked, tower wall A child’s hand limns the valley And this drawing speaks volumes Words of hope, not of bally He wipes his tears and marvels The miracle of Hope Valley The only miracle of Hope Valley And the grass grows-grows-grows Midst all the dead of Hope Valley Daffodils bloom-bloom-bloom For all the dead of Hope Valley The evening sun sets-sets-sets On the miracle of Hope Valley The only miracle of Hope Valley (lyrics to "the Anthem of Hope", a fictional song featured in Louise Blackwick's Neon Science-Fiction novel "5 Stars".

Have you ever heard the Hungarian national anthem? No? Good for you! I wouldn’t recommend it at all. Unless you are looking for inspiration for your suicide attempt. If it is not just an attempt but you are deadly serious about your suicide then I strongly recommend you not only read the lyrics but listen to the music too. The most mournful funeral song sounds jolly compared to it. Other nations have inspiring anthems like ‘God Save the Queen’ or the ‘La Marseillaise’ or ‘The StarSpangled Banner’, and their lyrics are about victory and proudness like ‘Russia – our sacred homeland, Russia – our beloved country’ or ‘Germany, Germany above everything, Above everything in the world!’ But what about the Hungarian anthem? It starts with ‘O Lord, bless the Hungarian’ and then follow eight long and painful stanzas about our ‘slave yoke’ and ‘funeral urn’ and ‘the corpses of our defeated army’ and ‘groans of death, weeping’ and finally it finishes with ‘Pity, O Lord, the Hungarians they who have suffered for all sins of the past and of the future!’ Yes, of the future too.

Whatever fear he’d instilled in people on the streets was of no consequence inside the market, packed with ramshackle stalls and vendors and food stands, smoke drifting throughout, the tang of blood and spark of magic acrid in his nostrils. And above it all, against the far wall of the enormous space, was a towering mosaic, the tiles taken from an ancient temple in Pangera, restored and re-created here in loving detail, despite its gruesome depiction: cloaked and hooded death, the skeleton’s face grinning out from the cowl, a scythe in one hand and an hourglass in the other. Above its head, words had been crafted in the Republic’s most ancient language: Memento Mori.

Magazine and television advertisements have me subconsciously believing that a sexy airbrushed image can sell a lot more canned tomatoes than without this image. Who’s to say that a dolled up vagina can’t buy me love? Yet this is what we teach our daughters through these images. It’s the makeup, manicures, pedicures, closet full of clothes, the size of our boobs, the perfection of our skin and shininess of our hair – this is what secures us love. We teach our sons to love women who look a certain way. We teach our men to support this belief system, and it’s constantly reinforced by false advertisements. It’s like that one cheesy but lovable song we can’t stop playing. We may forget about it for a while, but the minute we hear it again, it’s on repeat a few hundred times. “How can we be lovers if we can’t be friends?” you may ask. This is a question for Michael Bolton and whoever wrote the lyrics to it.

With Circe, I wanted to take a woman’s life and set it at the center of an epic story. Ancient epic almost exclusively features male protagonists, and the few women who appear are there mostly as cameo helpmeets, breeding stock, or obstacles to be overcome; their stories matter only in how they touch the hero’s. I wanted to flip the script, to make Odysseus the cameo and Circe the epic hero. I also deliberately included things that have been shut out of epic because they are considered traditionally female, like parenting, crafts, and childbirth. As anyone who’s ever lived through or witnessed childbirth can tell you, it is one of life’s more epic experiences. "Meanwhile, with The Song of Achilles, I wanted to do the opposite: take a story that was famously epic and tell it from a personal and intimate perspective. I was inspired by Homer in subject matter, but in tone I wanted to come more out of the tradition of the ancient lyric poets, including Sappho and Catullus.

Song using her poem as lyrics that inspired me to read her biography -YouTube Aaron Shay Recuerdo Recuerdo We were very tired, we were very merry— We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry. It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable— But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table, We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon; And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon. We were very tired, we were very merry— We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry; And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear, From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere; And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold, And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold. We were very tired, we were very merry, We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry. We hailed, “Good morrow, mother!” to a shawl-covered head, And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read; And she wept, “God bless you!” for the apples and pears, And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.

Charlie Gillett wrote that “folk existed in a world of its own until Bob Dylan dragged it, screaming, into pop,” and while folk fans might frame that the opposite way—Dylan had dragged pop, screaming very loudly, into their world—it was the iconic moment of intersection, when rock emerged, separate from rock ’n’ roll, and replaced folk as the serious, intelligent voice of a generation. In the process, rock fans adopted many of the folk world’s prides and prejudices: Rock ’n’ rollers had worn matching outfits, played teen-oriented dance music, and strove to cut hit singles. Rock musicians wore street clothes, sang poetic and meaningful lyrics accompanied by imaginative or self-consciously rootsy instrumentation, and recorded long-playing albums that demanded repeated, attentive listening. Those albums might sell in the millions, but they were presented as artistic statements, and by the later 1960s it was considered insulting to call someone like Jim Morrison or Janis Joplin “commercial.

Recently, a judge of the prestigious 2014 British Forward Prize for Poetry was moved to observe that “there is an awful lot of very powerful, lyrical, and readable poetry being written today,” but we need education, because “we have lost the sense that poetry sits halfway between prose and music—that you can’t expect to read it like a novel.” A few years ago, the New York Times published an op-ed of mine, about learning poetry by heart. The response to it confirmed that people of all ages think about poetry as a kind of inspired music, embodying beauty and insight. On one hand, poetry has always flowed from music, as rap and hip-hop remind us big-time. Rappers know how poetry walks and talks. So we have music, or deeply felt recitations of poems that belong to collective memory. On the other hand, we have overly instructive prose poems, as well as the experiments of certain critical ideologies, or conceptual performance art. These aspects seem to represent the public, Janus face of poetry.

There is safety in learning doctrine in gatherings which are sponsored by proper authority. Some members, even some who have made covenants in the temple, are associating with groups of one kind or another which have an element of secrecy about them and which pretend to have some higher source of inspiration concerning the fulfillment of prophecies than do ward or stake leaders or the General Authorities of the Church. Know this: There are counterfeit revelations which, we are warned, “if possible . . . shall deceive the very elect, who are the elect according to the covenant.” (JS—M 1:22.) . . . For the past several years we have watched patterns of reverence and irreverence in the Church. While many are to be highly commended, we are drifting. We have reason to be deeply concerned. The world grows increasingly noisy. Clothing and grooming and conduct are looser and sloppier and more disheveled. Raucous music, with obscene lyrics blasted through amplifiers while lights flash psychedelic colors, characterizes the drug culture. Variations of these things are gaining wide acceptance and influence over our youth. . . . This trend to more noise, more excitement, more contention, less restraint, less dignity, less formality is not coincidental nor innocent nor harmless. The first order issued by a commander mounting a military invasion is the jamming of the channels of communication of those he intends to conquer. Irreverence suits the purposes of the adversary by obstructing the delicate channels of revelation in both mind and spirit.

[J.Ivy:] We are all here for a reason on a particular path You don't need a curriculum to know that you are part of the math Cats think I'm delirious, but I'm so damn serious That's why I expose my soul to the globe, the world I'm trying to make it better for these little boys and girls I'm not just another individual, my spirit is a part of this That's why I get spiritual, but I get my hymns from Him So it's not me, it's He that's lyrical I'm not a miracle, I'm a heaven-sent instrument My rhythmatic regimen navigates melodic notes for your soul and your mental That's why I'm instrumental Vibrations is what I'm into Yeah, I need my loot by rent day But that is not what gives me the heart of Kunte Kinte I'm tryina give us "us free" like Cinque I can't stop, that's why I'm hot Determination, dedication, motivation I'm talking to you, my many inspirations When I say I can't, let you or self down If I were of the highest cliff, on the highest riff And you slipped off the side and clinched on to your life in my grip I would never, ever let you down And when these words are found Let it been known that God's penmanship has been signed with a language called love That's why my breath is felt by the deaf And why my words are heard and confined to the ears of the blind I, too, dream in color and in rhyme So I guess I'm one of a kind in a full house Cuz whenever I open my heart, my soul, or my mouth A touch of God reigns out [Chorus] [Jay-Z (Kanye West)] Who else you know been hot this long, (Oh Ya, you know we ain't finished) Started from nothing but he got this strong, (The ROC is in the building) Built the ROC from a pebble, pedalled rock before I met you, Pedalled bikes, got my nephews pedal bikes because they special, Let you tell that man I'm falling, Well somebody must've caught him, Cause every fourth quarter, I like to Mike Jordan 'em, Number one albums, what I got like four of dem, More of dem on the way, The Eight Wonder on the way, Clear the way, I'm here to stay, Y'all can save the chitter chat, this and that, this and Jay, Dissin' Jay 'ill get you mased, When I start spitting them lyrics, niggas get very religious, Six Hail Maries, please Father forgive us, Young, the Archbishop, the Pope John Paul of y'all niggas, The way y'all all follow Jigga, Hov's a living legend and I tell you why, Everybody wanna be Hov and Hov still alive.

In 1853, Haussmann began the incredible transformation of Paris, reconfiguring the city into 20 manageable arrondissements, all linked with grand, gas-lit boulevards and new arteries of running water to feed large public parks and beautiful gardens influenced greatly by London’s Kew Gardens. In every quarter, the indefatigable prefect, in concert with engineer Jean-Charles Alphand, refurbished neglected estates such as Parc Monceau and the Jardin du Luxembourg, and transformed royal hunting enclaves into new parks such as enormous Bois de Boulogne and Bois de Vincennes. They added romantic Parc des Buttes Chaumont and Parc Montsouris in areas that were formerly inhospitable quarries, as well as dozens of smaller neighborhood gardens that Alphand described as "green and flowering salons." Thanks to hothouses that sprang up in Paris, inspired by England’s prefabricated cast iron and glass factory buildings and huge exhibition halls such as the Crystal Palace, exotic blooms became readily available for small Parisian gardens. For example, nineteenth-century metal and glass conservatories added by Charles Rohault de Fleury to the Jardin des Plantes, Louis XIII’s 1626 royal botanical garden for medicinal plants, provided ideal conditions for orchids, tulips, and other plant species from around the globe. Other steel structures, such as Victor Baltard’s 12 metal and glass market stalls at Les Halles in the 1850s, also heralded the coming of Paris’s most enduring symbol, Gustave Eiffel’s 1889 Universal Exposition tower, and the installation of steel viaducts for trains to all parts of France. Word of this new Paris brought about emulative City Beautiful movements in most European capitals, and in the United States, Bois de Boulogne and Parc des Buttes Chaumont became models for Frederick Law Olmsted’s Central Park in New York. Meanwhile, for Parisians fascinated by the lakes, cascades, grottoes, lawns, flowerbeds, and trees that transformed their city from just another ancient capital into a lyrical, magical garden city, the new Paris became a textbook for cross-pollinating garden ideas at any scale. Royal gardens and exotic public pleasure grounds of the Second Empire became springboards for gardens such as Bernard Tschumi’s vast, conceptual Parc de La Villette, with its modern follies, and “wild” jardins en mouvement at the Fondation Cartier and the Musée du Quai Branly. In turn, allées of trees in some classic formal gardens were allowed to grow freely or were interleaved with wildflower meadows and wild grasses for their unsung beauty. Private gardens hidden behind hôtel particulier walls, gardens in spacious suburbs, city courtyards, and minuscule rooftop terraces, became expressions of old and very new gardens that synthesized nature, art, and outdoors living.

I wanted the gift of the shortest and easiest path. Instead, He gave me the gift of holding me close and strengthening me for the hard path. It took me a long time to understand that both were gifts. And as I embraced the second, my need for the first lost its tormenting grip.

I aim to convey, through lines and verse, the Black experience as it is today so that the generations who come after us have a lyrical but accurate account of how we contended with racial and social injustice and violence during our lifetime. In essence, I write to promote the reverence we deserve for our resilience, beauty, and humanity.

Who'd have thought our road would be so long when we started this ride together Facing every storm by standing strong for worse or for better Making memories with every passing day that will last us a lifetime And even in the darkest of days your love makes me shine Now under the summer moons sky lost in the sparkle in your eyes So many things I want to say to you but no words would ever do Here in this moment, I just want to love you

We had a good gag in the middle of the song where the lyric talks about ‘being left out on the pavement,’ and a girl’s voice says, ‘Goodbye.’ The girl we used for that is the actual girl who’d dumped Martin and caused him all the heartache that inspired the album. The words Martin came up with for the end of the song were ‘And all my friends just might ask me. They say, “Martin, maybe one day you’ll find true love,”’ which I thought worked well, and we capped it off by a block of vocals at the end, during which you can hear me singing, ‘Be lucky in love.

I think after she tore it up, Sunny thought the song was lost for good. But some things are forever . . . like the story about that time in kindergarten when you got caught eating a glue stick . . . or that permanent marker stain you accidentally put on your teacher’s dry-erase board . . . or your red-haired best friend and the lyrics she inspired.

Running after my own dreams Tripping over my own feet Held on to my self esteem Walking to my own loud beat So stand tall or take a seat

The great beauty in the English language, innumerable ways of continuing the graphic with explosive, the lyrical, the loving with the spiritual – like dogs nuzzling, cleaning, co-piloting thoughts into the ether of creativity.

women are my favorite guy

Under the spotlight, of the streetlights That wait for me to shine Over the moonlight, it feels so right I'm poetry in motion It's part of my devotion I play with all emotion Under the spotlight, of the streetlights

My mind is confused, I shudder in panic. My night of pleasure has turned into terror. Setting the table to let the watchmen watch, eating and drinking, “Arise, officers, anoint the shield.” For thus said my Lord to me: Go, station the lookout, and let him tell what he sees. He will see a pair of horsemen...and he will call out like a lion. My lord, I stand on the lookout constantly during the day, and I am stationed at my post all the nights. Behold, it is coming: a chariot with a man, a pair of horsemen. Each says loudly, “It has fallen! Babylonia has fallen!

AKKA MAHADEVI Around nine hundred years ago in southern India, there lived a female mystic called Akka Mahadevi. Akka was a devotee of Shiva. Ever since her childhood, she had regarded Shiva as her beloved, her husband. It was not just a belief; for her it was a living reality. The king saw this beautiful young woman one day, and decided he wanted her as his wife. She refused. But the king was adamant and threatened her parents, so she yielded. She married the man, but she kept him at a physical distance. He tried to woo her, but her constant refrain was, “Shiva is my husband.” Time passed and the king’s patience wore thin. Infuriated, he tried to lay his hands upon her. She refused. “I have another husband. His name is Shiva. He visits me, and I am with him. I cannot be with you.” Because she claimed to have another husband, she was brought to court for prosecution. Akka is said to have announced to all present, “Being a queen doesn’t mean a thing to me. I will leave.” When the king saw the ease with which she was walking away from everything, he made a last futile effort to salvage his dignity. He said, “Everything on your person—your jewels, your garments—belongs to me. Leave it all here and go.” So, in the full assembly, Akka just dropped her jewelry, all her clothes, and walked away naked. From that day on, she refused to wear clothes even though many tried to convince her otherwise. It was unbelievable for a woman to be walking naked on the streets of India at the time—and this was a beautiful young woman. She lived out her life as a wandering mendicant and composed some exquisite poetry that lives on to this very day. In a poem (translated by A. K. Ramanujan), she says: People, male and female, blush when a cloth covering their shame comes loose. When the lord of lives lives drowned without a face in the world, how can you be modest? When all the world is the eye of the lord, onlooking everywhere, what can you cover and conceal? Devotees of this kind may be in this world but not of it. The power and passion with which they lived their lives make them inspirations for generations of humanity. Akka continues to be a living presence in the Indian collective consciousness, and her lyrical poems remain among the most prized works of South Indian literature to this very day. Embracing

What are we? We are a combination of sand and gunpowder, cosmic energy and sawdust. We are black holes and novae, children’s laughter, and tears of time.

Living your dream is hard work. Go on and try it. You might like it,

In your gaze, a song did fly...how lyrics welled in the dark depths of your gaze, in your look, is the music of a bottomless sea....

In your gaze, a song did fly...how lyrics welled in the dark depths of your eyes, in your look, is the music of a bottomless sea....

In your gaze, a song did fly...how lyrics welled in the dark depths of your eyes...for in your look, is the music of a bottomless sea....

But Rio begins, appropriately enough, with the title track which Le Bon Wrote as “an homage to New York, really - to America,” he said in a 2011 interview. As with many of his lyrics, however, inspiration first came from another place: a comely Birmingham restaurant server…”I took that home and put it together with all my wonderful feelings about being on tour in America. The song started off with a girl from Birmingham - but it became about the entire United States, from the mountains in the north down to the Rio Grande.

Lyrics of Love As I look into your eyes, my heart sings in melody, As I embrace you, my heart beats rapidly, I think I’m in love with you Honey! Because my heart whistles in symphony.

I may not be special, I don't gotta be, if all I want to do is be me.

Music is my inspiration. When my brain and music come together they form something unpredictable. The songs are the talent that fuels my characters. The lyrics are the skill that feeds my pages. The beats are the path in which they walk. Bringing together the story they have to tell.

Music is my inspiration. When my brain and music come together they form something unpredictable. It’s the talent that fuels my characters. It’s the scale that feeds my pages. It’s the path in which they walk. It’s the story they have to tell.

Amidst the chaos of profanity I seek to know if I will ever deserve The slightest inner peace."​

Haunted by the ghosts of their fallen brothers. There is no peace not even in triumph.

In the shadows of fear faith unfolds / ... / By the cleansing pain of awakening"​

The world grows increasingly noisy,” President Boyd K. Packer observed. “Raucous music, with obscene lyrics blasted through amplifiers while lights flash psychedelic colors, characterizes the drug culture. Variations of these things are gaining wide acceptance and influence over our youth. . . . This trend to more noise, more excitement, more contention, less restraint, less dignity, less formality is not coincidental nor innocent nor harmless. The first order issued by a commander mounting a military invasion is the jamming of the channels of communication of those he intends to conquer. . . . No one of us can survive in the world of today, much less in what it soon will become, without personal inspiration.

must be wrestled: this is no account of inspiration; it figures instead strenuous poetic labor.66 Proteus sponsors a sense of poetic form as constraint; notions of organic or expressive form are irrelevant to his legend. For only by constraint will he give answer: He bends to no entreaty; capture him With ruthless force and fetters; only these Will circumvent and shatter his designs. (Georgics 4.399–400)67 His story reveals some of what an account of poetic authority requires: struggle and labor, unstable and forceful formality, and repetitiveness; but also the merely temporary arrest of truth. Proteus is an oracle, not a figure for rhetorical artifice. One grasps him, holds on, and after his resistance is spent, he yields a truth. A grip on truth and an effort at retention, however temporary: that is what Proteus brings to a religious poetic—a stubborn, willful grasp on an elusive oracle. We speak of orphic fragments, enigmas, but not of forms fulfilled. Proteus supplements orphic poetics by sponsoring perseverance within explicit bonds: the origin of poetry, for him, is metamorphosis.

As James entered the El Paso city limits, he began thinking about lyrics to a song that would describe his journey. “I’m just cruise’n in my ride, with my posse by my side.” Well, he didn’t have anyone by his side—not even that dumb loser Grady, but that was hardly the point. This song would be his legacy, and he wanted to get it right. It would embody the contempt that he felt for society with all its rules and restrictions. It would make him into a folk hero. He would not pretend to die for any “cause.” He would let the world know that he had preferred a watery death to an existence where he was bound by mindless regulations.

Good writing arises out of obsession. With obsession there is emotional depth and a certain weight and gravity to the language and story. Without obsession I would be empty, and, literally, I wonder if I would even have any substance. The body is like a cathedral, and the cathedral needs music and prayer filling its grand spaces. Obsession turning over and over within the body creates music, prayer, substance that, although providing the depth, weight, and gravity I first evoked, also allows for lyricism, lightness, and flight up into the various arches and ellipses of the cathedral. Obsession is filled with slowness—and so obsession in my writing, for good or bad, doesn’t come about because of an immediate intellectual idea or problem, nor a quick flash of inspiration. There’s this slow energy at work, and I begin to become a part of that when I’m very close to silence.

Strike a match, ignite my past.

Rebellious"™ You're a barefoot odyssey, perched on a granite counter. Perched on edgeless intensity and arched reasoning. Why do I succumb to valiant persuasions? Just shatter me with your mammoth reality, break me into shards you think will clatter. But, I'm not made of material gravity I'm a symphony of notes looking to burst free! Call me lyrical, call it mercy, call this poetic justice and end my dispassionate existence so criminal. Bang your gavel against my criminalistic loins, I'm guilty of animalistic tendencies and tamed to humanoid inadequacies. I can shatter you in all aspects, and put you back in form in all retrospectives. I do not care to mold you into material to use as an art plateau. My hilly curves canvas's your mighty sword, burst free! Sing to me! Write me your lies. I beckon to endure your truths passionately, injustice webbed upon us is it poetic? Or law abiding? Where will it begin? Where will it end? Time has frozen around me, and all I can think of is this consumption of you. Wholely intoxicating, and wholely seductive. And I can't decide; When your limbs are apart and pinned displayed like a canvas to be ravaged, will you be entirely vulnerable to my demonstrations? Or will you swallow me whole? Swallow you, wallow in you... I'm invaded by your touch. Caught up! Caught up! Caught up! So caught up to us. I say; just lay down my body, tie up my mind, spank my assets, kisses so low and divine. This hasn't yet fully begun, and for sure won't end soon. So meet in our place of desire this noon, when footsteps cross the moon. Darkness descends during daylight when I draw the curtains tight, shutting out the world that claims our time. Now you're mine, you can't escape me, you can't escape this! I won't let you! Now you're a convoluted odyssey subdued by ministration firm, tender, meticulous, smitten, sensitized and shackled. You're a richly tainted taste of sin. A resolute candle of insatiable inspiration. Whose wick lit quick, whose burn smoulders on. Lights out, darkness nears and you burn within me. If I'm a sin, get on bended knees. Prey on me, and you're forgiven. To hell with Mary I want to cum quick see? Rebel no more, we've found retribution! Call it retribution, call it mercy, call this poetic justice, call this confession. I want the marks of your claws to escort me out the door. I want the ruthless indulgence of rebellion tattooed across your psyche! Exhale my name, and blow the flame out! I'll lay and lay som more, till the next time my rebellious lover comes through the door...

JAMIE'S SONG 'Mukti': She’s sitting on the step, staring back at me. Wonder why she does, wonder what she sees. Nothing but the lies. Nothing but the cries. There’s nothing in her eyes except for me. I don‘t really quite see, what I’m meant to find. But something in me says, there’s something in her mind, That I need to know, have to comprehend. Wonder what she’ll see if I want to be her friend. Nothing but the lies. Nothing but the cries. There’s nothing in her mind except for me.