Mirrors Lyrics Quotes

There's a bit of magic in everything And then some loss to even things out.

Mirrors on the ceiling, The pink champagne on ice And she said 'We are all just prisoners here, of our own device' And in the master's chambers, They gathered for the feast They stab it with their steely knives, But they just can't kill the beast Last thing I remember, I was Running for the door I had to find the passage back To the place I was before 'Relax,' said the night man, 'We are programmed to receive. You can check out any time you like, But you can never leave ...

So you want to know all about me, Who I am What chance meeting of brush and canvas painted the face you see? what made me despise the girl in the mirror enough to transform her, turn her into a stranger, only not.

When you think the night has seen your mind, That inside you're twisted and unkind, Let me stand to show that you are blind. Please put down you hands 'cause I see you. I'll be you mirror, reflect what you are. I'll Be Your Mirror

There is only one good thing about a small town You know that you want to get out - Songs for Drella

I'll be your mirror Reflect what you are In case you don't know I'll be the sun The wind and the rain The light on your door To show that you're home. When you think the nights is in your mind, That inside you're twisted and unkind Let me stand to show that you are blind Please put down your hands, 'cause I see you. I find it hard To believe you don't know The beauty you are But if you don't Let me be your eyes A hand to your darkness So you won't be afraid. When you think the night is in your mind That inside you're twisted and unkind Let me stand to show that you are blind Please put down your hands, 'cause I see you. I'll be your mirror.

I'll be your mirror, Reflect what you are, In case you don't know. I'll Be Your Mirror

Do you remember the fundraiser buffet for the senator at the Yacht Club?” ... “I’d forgotten something in my car so I was outside when you arrived. I saw you driving too fast with the top down and the music too loud. You were belting out the lyrics like you didn’t care who was listening. Then I watched you use the rearview mirror to fix yourself up so you’d look respectable, and when you were all spit-polished and perfect, you gave the mirror the finger.” She remembered. “You asked me out on our first date that night.

Dancers can look at a mirror, a writer can look at a page, and a painter can look at a canvas and see their work reflected back at them. But singers can only hear and feel what they are doing. After all the training, technique, use of breath, and placement of sound, it boils down to an emotional response to music and lyrics---and the way they touch one's heart and soul.

All over the world the teenage millions searched for routes out of their dank, personal labyrinths. Signing up for that perfect extracurricular, rehearsing fake smiles before toothpaste-flecked mirrors, rummaging through their personalities to come up with laid-back greetings and clever put-downs to be saved for that special occasion. Lying sprawled on their beds, ankles crossed, while they overanalyzed the lyric sheet of the band that currently owned their soul, until the words became a philosophy.

I was grinding away to the climactic moan backtrack when I caught my reflection in the club’s mirror, hips rotating, booty shaking. Years later, Grace described my smooth moves as a sad epileptic white girl’s imitation of a twerk. Harsh. Could anyone look sexy dancing to lyrics that include “Sucky, sucky. Me sucky, sucky”? I don’t think so.

Dancers can look at a mirror, a writer can look at a page, and a painter can look at a canvas and see their work reflected back at them. But singers can only hear and feel what they are doing. After all the training, technique, use of breath, and placement of sound, it boils down to an emotional response to music and lyrics---and the way they touch one's heart and soul

I think, when singing, one exposes one’s soul,” I said. “How so?” I struggled to explain. “Dancers can look at a mirror, a writer can look at a page, and a painter can look at a canvas and see their work reflected back at them. But singers can only hear and feel what they are doing. After all the training, technique, use of breath, and placement of sound, it boils down to an emotional response to music and lyrics—and the way they touch one’s heart and soul.

No Mirrors in My Nana’s House” Sweet Honey in the Rock LYRICS BY YSAYE MARIA BARNWELL Sweet Honey in the Rock is a Grammy Award–winning vocal group of black women vocalists founded in 1973 by Bernice Johnson Reagon. The group’s members have changed during its long tenure, but it retains a core of five vocalists and a sign-language interpreter. Their performances are deeply embodied celebrations of black women’s lived experiences. The group’s name is derived from Psalm 81:16: “But you would be fed with the finest of wheat; with honey from the rock I would satisfy you.” Sign-language interpreter Dr. Ysaye Barnwell joined Sweet Honey in the Rock in 1979 and appears in more than thirty recordings with the group. She is the author of one of the group’s most popular recordings, “No Mirrors in My Nana’s House.” It is a stirring piece that reveals how the loving protection of black women can shield black girls from a painful world that seeks to negate their beauty and worth. In 1998 the lyrics became a children’s book published by Harcourt Brace. There were no mirrors in my Nana’s house, no mirrors in my Nana’s house. There were no mirrors in my Nana’s house, no mirrors in my Nana’s house. And the beauty that I saw in everything was in her eyes (like the rising of the sun). I never knew that my skin was too black. I never knew that my nose was too flat. I never knew that my clothes didn’t fit. I never knew there were things that I’d missed, cause the beauty in everything was in her eyes (like the rising of the sun); . . . was in her eyes. There were no mirrors in my Nana’s house, no mirrors in my Nana’s house. And the beauty that I saw in everything was in her eyes (like the rising of the sun). I was intrigued by the cracks in the walls. I tasted, with joy, the dust that would fall. The noise in the hallway was music to me. The trash and the rubbish just cushioned my feet. And the beauty in everything was in her eyes (like the rising of the sun). . . . was in her eyes. There were no mirrors in my Nana’s house, no mirrors in my Nana’s house. And the beauty that I saw in everything was in her eyes (like the rising of the sun). The world outside was a magical place. I only knew love. I never knew hate, and the beauty in everything was in her eyes (like the rising of the sun). . . . was in her eyes. There were no mirrors in my Nana’s house, no mirrors in my Nana’s house. There were no mirrors in my Nana’s house, no mirrors in my Nana’s house. And the beauty that I saw in everything was in her eyes (like the rising of the sun).

CHALLENGES TO YOUNG POETS Invent a new language anyone can understand. Climb the Statue of Liberty. Reach for the unattainable. Kiss the mirror and write what you see and hear. Dance with wolves and count the stars, including the unseen. Be naïve, innocent, non-cynical, as if you had just landed on earth (as indeed you have, as indeed we all have), astonished by what you have fallen upon. Write living newspaper. Be a reporter from outer space, filing dispatches to some supreme managing editor who believes in full disclosure and has a low tolerance level for hot air. Write and endless poem about your life on earth or elsewhere. Read between the lines of human discourse. Avoid the provincial, go for the universal. Think subjectively, write objectively. Think long thoughts in short sentences. Don't attend poetry workshops, but if you do, don't go the learn "how to" but to learn "what" (What's important to write about). Don't bow down to critics who have not themselves written great masterpieces. Resist much, obey less. Secretly liberate any being you see in a cage. Write short poems in the voice of birds. Make your lyrics truly lyrical. Birdsong is not made by machines. Give your poem wings to fly to the treetops. The much-quoted dictum from William Carlos Williams, "No ideas but in things," is OK for prose, but it lays a dead hand on lyricism, since "things" are dead. Don't contemplate your navel in poetry and think the rest of the world is going to think it's important. Remember everything, forget nothing. Work on a frontier, if you can find one. Go to sea, or work near water, and paddle your own boat. Associate with thinking poets. They're hard to find. Cultivate dissidence and critical thinking. "First thought, best thought" may not make for the greatest poetry. First thought may be worst thought. What's on your mind? What do you have in mind? Open your mouth and stop mumbling. Don't be so open minded that your brains fall out. Questions everything and everyone. Be subversive, constantly questioning reality and status quo. Be a poet, not a huckster. Don't cater, don't pander, especially not to possible audiences, readers, editors, or publishers. Come out of your closet. It's dark there. Raise the blinds, throw open your shuttered windows, raise the roof, unscrew the locks from the doors, but don't throw away the screws. Be committed to something outside yourself. Be militant about it. Or ecstatic. To be a poet at sixteen is to be sixteen, to be a poet at 40 is to be a poet. Be both. Wake up and pee, the world's on fire. Have a nice day.

Reflections Awaiting Death When we met your love was lyrical like a placid lake which mirrors the heavens on a summer day. Through marriage your love was epical likethe stream which flows from the lake and blindly rushes on, reflecting its banks, forests, fields and cities. Now, as you lie there motionless and silent on the lap of death, your love is dramatic like the ocean which having swallowed the waters of the lakes and streams, rests contently in its measureless depths.

I’m not really one to write simplistic and jovial lyrics, and while on the surface I can see how “Bros” is a happy song – a celebration of friendship and one’s younger years – I see a panic in the words. Particularly the bridge, which I think expresses the fear I had, not of growing up, but of growing up without Sadie. I don’t know which one of us started having trouble entering the Fourth World first – I’d like to think it was me because I was a year older, but I don’t think our age difference was mirrored in our maturity. Either way, I worried that once we entered reality as budding adults – no longer pretending to be “raised by wolves and other beasts” – we wouldn’t be together all the time.

I look grey. I actually do. Mirrors should be banned, the same way Uncle Noelie banned the News. Both are enemies of hope. Uncle Noelie said he couldn’t take listening to the wall-to-wall Doom experts who were the Boom experts before, most of them like a dark neighbour secretly delighted to be part of an important funeral, and so, because the time called for extreme tactics and because your heart has to be sustained by something, he switched over to Lyric FM for Marty in the Morning and shook hands with Mozart. But you can’t switch off the mirror, it’s right there over the bathroom sink, it’s hard to avoid, and in it I’m grey.

But the fool on the hill sees the sun going down,” I sang along softly, feeling like the lyrics somehow mirrored my life. At nearly forty-five, divorced and unsure where my writing career was headed, I couldn’t help but feel like a fool myself, like I was driving headfirst into an uncertain future.

My week beats your year.

Just a perfect day, you made me forget myself I thought I was someone else, someone good Perfect Day

Sometimes when I can't decide what I should do I think what would Andy have said He'd probably say you think too much That's 'cause there's work that you don't want to do It's work, the most important thing is work Work, the most important thing is work

I much preferred to observe, to twirl around in the fascinating constellation of my own mind, where I could entertain myself by creating stories about the people around me, their fears and obsessions, wondering what faces they made at themselves in the mirror, if they were anything like mine. I memorized song lyrics, constructed elaborate fantasies, and filled diaries and journals with the rambling minutiae of my day, personal mythologies, and sometimes, prayers

Embrace Efficiency, Elevate Flavor: Smart Kitchen Tools for Culinary Adventurers The kitchen, once a realm of necessity, has morphed into a playground of possibility. Gone are the days of clunky appliances and tedious prep work. Enter the age of the smart kitchen tool, a revolution that whispers efficiency and shouts culinary liberation. For the modern gastronome, these tech-infused gadgets are not mere conveniences, but allies in crafting delectable adventures, freeing us to savor the journey as much as the destination. Imagine mornings when your smart coffee maker greets you with the perfect brew, prepped by the whispers of your phone while you dream. Your fridge, stocked like a digital oracle, suggests recipes based on its ever-evolving inventory, and even automatically orders groceries you've run low on. The multi-cooker, your multitasking superhero, whips up a gourmet chili while you conquer emails, and by dinnertime, your smart oven roasts a succulent chicken to golden perfection, its progress monitored remotely as you sip a glass of wine. But efficiency is merely the prologue. Smart kitchen tools unlock a pandora's box of culinary precision. Smart scales, meticulous to the milligram, banish recipe guesswork and ensure perfect balance in every dish. Food processors and blenders, armed with pre-programmed settings and self-cleaning prowess, transform tedious chopping into a mere blip on the culinary radar. And for the aspiring chef, a sous vide machine becomes a magic wand, coaxing impossible tenderness from the toughest cuts of meat. Yet, technology alone is not the recipe for culinary bliss. For those who yearn to paint with flavors, smart kitchen tools are the brushes on their canvas. A connected recipe platform becomes your digital sous chef, guiding you through each step with expert instructions and voice-activated ease. Spice racks, infused with artificial intelligence, suggest unexpected pairings, urging you to venture beyond the familiar. And for the ultimate expression of your inner master chef, a custom knife, forged from heirloom steel and lovingly honed, becomes an extension of your hand, slicing through ingredients with laser focus and lyrical grace. But amidst the symphony of gadgets and apps, let us not forget the heart of the kitchen: the human touch. Smart tools are not meant to replace our intuition but to augment it. They free us from the drudgery, allowing us to focus on the artistry, the love, the joy of creation. Imagine kneading dough, the rhythm of your hands mirroring the gentle whirring of a smart bread machine, then shaping a loaf that holds the warmth of both technology and your own spirit. Or picture yourself plating a dish, using smart portion scales for precision but garnishing with edible flowers chosen simply because they spark joy. This, my friends, is the symphony of the smart kitchen: a harmonious blend of tech and humanity, where efficiency becomes the brushstroke that illuminates the vibrant canvas of culinary passion. Of course, every adventure, even one fueled by smart tools, has its caveats. Interoperability between gadgets can be a tangled web, and data privacy concerns linger like unwanted guests. But these challenges are mere bumps on the culinary road, hurdles to be overcome by informed choices and responsible data management. After all, we wouldn't embark on a mountain trek without checking the weather, would we? So, embrace the smart kitchen, dear foodies! Let technology be your sous chef, your precision tool, your culinary muse. But never forget the magic of your own hands, the wisdom of your palate, and the joy of a meal shared with loved ones. For in the end, it's not about the gadgets, but the memories we create around them, the stories whispered over simmering pots, and the laughter echoing through a kitchen filled with the aroma of possibility.

You're fucking with a bad one You want it you can have some Mic's back son Captain of the ship Lift the anchor Tried to write me off But I'm on a different chapter They don't understand I got another plan Think I'm gone I just keep coming back Like cancer (uh!) I'm fucking active (ooh!) When you hear them ad lib's It's gang shit And again, the man again You're mad again I went missing like Madeleine They thought I'd never rap again But how about, no Bow down hoe Sticking 'round, in your house With the fucking liquor out The only competition Is the man that's in the mirror now Dealing with a different Kind of spirit in my lyrics I'mma fly away Kill the entire game I know you felt some type of way I'll lay them flowers by your idols graves

Life's like forever becoming But life's forever dealing in hurt Now life's like death without living That's what life's like without you ... What good are these thoughts that I'm thinking It must be better not to be thinking at all A styrofoam lover with emotions of concrete No not much, not much at all ... What's good? What's good? Not much at all Life's good- But not fair at all - What's Good - The Thesis from Magic and Loss

They say the president's dead No one can find his head It's been missing now for weeks But no one noticed it He had seemed so fit And I'm sick of it I'm sick of you Bye bye bye

Two Suns in the Sunset" "In my rearview mirror, the sun is going down Sinking behind bridges in the road And I think of all the good things That we have left undone And I suffer premonitions, confirm suspicions Of the holocaust to come The rusty wire that holds the cork that keeps the anger in Gives way and suddenly it's day again The sun is in the east Even though the day is done Two suns in the sunset Could be the human race is run Like the moment when the brakes lock And you slide towards the big truck You stretch the frozen moments with your fear And you'll never hear their voices And you'll never see their faces You have no recourse to the law anymore And as the windshield melts and my tears evaporate Leaving only charcoal to defend Finally, I understand The feelings of the few Ashes and diamonds, foe and friend We were all equal in the end