Daily Podcast

As per popular request, I redid my song, with louder vocals... And substituted an acoustic guitar for the electric I used (on an acoustic channel) last time..

If anyone's looking for some good collab (aka vocals, drums, bass...) I'd love to work this song up to a much better and brighter version!!!!!

Happy listening!
-A

I'm finally
learning to forgive.
If I don't,
I don't know how i'll live.
It tortures me inside,
makes me wanna hide for a while.

It's human to err
it's not like I don't care
about all the mistakes i've made
in my life.
II know i've been wrong,

I'm Coming Alive

The feelings that were not felt
I saved the best for you
I never meant to let it out
I hope you know thats true

Directions opposite in turn [that ropes two uses, which Dutch Double]
Having read the same passages ten times over, I’m fin-ding
refuge in reading the syllables backwards and taking lib-er-ties
with punctuation [and grammar] – I have a license to destroy the fibrous mounds of language
I have compiled around me, draped sinew-like about my shoulders, wear so proudly
as if to say, “I am complete and you are a cashier, bagging spoiled milk and returning home to smell
of cucumbers”. No! I no longer fear the fragment sentence. Not that I ever have. Nor the winding

Another song for you, YWP. This one was actually written as a character development exercise, but I liked it so much I decided to keep it, record it, & have some fun with it. Enjoy. Also, re: my voice sounding quiet, I think that's a side effect of exporting from GarageBand into iTunes to get it to save as an mp3. I'll see if I can figure something out to make it... not so quiet. o.O Anyway. Enjoy. :)

Lyrics:

You used to carve your name
into the stage
of the places you would play in your band;
you used to hold my hand.

You beat your drums
in time with the thrum

A song that was written very spontaneously but through much effort. Warning: Rather trippy. May cause brain confusion

I'm laughing with the reality
Of this improbable dream 
Where the unseen 
Can wake up 
Just become seen 
Yeah it's moments like this
That make me who I am
Instead of just ogling the person I wanna be
I've never been this particular version of myself before 
It's kind of frightening to become who I am 
I'm livin' in an alien body 
With an alien inside my head 
I'm out here studying this world so tall 
Hoping i'll still be able to hear the call 
And all these bruises can not phase me 
This half-assed feeling can not replace 
My wonder 
Yeah I can hold my own 

(Anaïs, I don't really know, podcasts, some sort of short story, We'll see., where am I going with this?)

I drink tea through pewter straws from cups laced with ampersands. Green tea on Mondays & Fridays, black tea every time else. I've never really been much for the herbal variety. Herbal tea tastes like being someone you don't want to be. My handwriting mimics the tea. On green days it's full of cursive letters & swirly "y"s & on black days it's blocky & full & caffeinated.

This discrepancy, disparity, duality of two-worlds-in-one-head of a reality, of a word that by my definition has no definition anymore, has no meaning nor significance to my day-by-day existentialist existence that for a lack of a better word I call my life. I admit sometimes I am inclined to lie back in my chair and stare at the sky and ask, “What does it all mean?” It’s just a thing I do. I don’t expect a solution, resolution, absolute absolution; I’m not that dense. I prefer to quip a snarky “Forty-two” and that’s the best answer I’ve found as of yet: Nonsense.

Flooding in the bath room
Blood across the floor
The one she loves are pounding on the door

In my place it drifts away
In my place In my place you lost your mind

I know where they locked you away
Cuz I was put there too
I hope to god I’ll be out of here soon
For forty nights you lost it all
You cried at night stared at the wall
The ghost of routine falling from the moon

In my place it drifts away
In my place In my place you lost your mind

An acoustic jam version written by myself and my bassist

Yesterday's footprints have melted down from white to green to brown to black, stones slick & exposed, stonewalls in rows & footsteps sloshing there & back through snowmelt thick with birdcalls, flower petals crushed flat & stalks leaning in the mud; I walk/ along yesterday's footprints--

I walk inside the flood.

Acoustic original-Courtesy of Thor

Hello, m'dear.

It's been a while.
I've missed you.
(Did you miss me?)
You realize what you've
done to me,
correct?
I cannot
for the life of me,
stop thinking about you.
You and your
long luscious hair.
Your
bright-as-the-moon eyes.
Your
smile that is
perfect
even with the braces on.

Hello, m'dear.

Do you remember the times?
All those years ago,
when we were the
perfect pair.
When we would
hold hands under the table and
write notes to each other in class.
The little smirks and
funny faces that
made us both giggle.

The streets are crisp with shapes unknown
Unseen by the naked eye
Unheard by those who do not want to know
Maybe all this is just some cruel joke
Thought up to distracted us from the ugly truth
Just keep me in line
I don't have the answer this time
And I don't have the courage
I don't have the lies
To keep you in line
Just please don't feel obliged
Obliged

And I said
Baby what have you been smoking
With eyes as big as yours I thought you would have seen
All the trouble the trauma that goes on here
but I guess
I guess you can't take in all that you see

This is something I wrote months and months ago and never got around to podcasting. But it's a podcasting kind of day. Sorry if it's really quiet, like it is on my computer. And sorry about my cold.

Brother
you used to play me songs
as rich and sweet and strong as golden honey
on sunny, whirling autumn days
and in my childish haze I saw
a world of patterns, moments paused,
reflecting as your fingers bent
and sent
premonitory glass repents.
The air was thick with your sickness,
thick with moths and quicksand rhymes
in double time,
your strings emitting sound ignition

Funny, when we fall apart, we let nobody see. We make excuses, walk away, and break down privately, in bathroom stalls and empty rooms that no one else can find; we listen to the logic of the voices in our minds.

I’m useless for what I cannot do. I’m worthless if I don’t do well. I’m stupid if I can’t find truth. I’m weak if I don’t go through hell.

You’re not going through hell if no one can tell.
You’re not going through hell if no one can tell.
You’re not going through hell if no one can tell.
You’re not going through hell if no one can tell.

Bitch.

Look at me in the eye that woman told me
Told me not to be around here
To stay clear
Told me to live a lie that woman told me

best friend, take the gun from your head.
Hello? You aren't the only soul tonight with seasonal depression.
I hear the same tap tap tapping of suicide inside my brain every winter,
But that photograph of us on the train tracks,
Holding hands.
Noses touching.
That's what stops me from becoming an angel.

Get high,
on this roller-coaster ride that we call life.
There's beauty in things like us.
Potential happiness with every ring ring ringing phone call.
Just roll through the sadness, and look out your window to break free.

The fiery anger inside of you in self inflicted, lover

A dove’s heart is no sweeter than mine
But they get all the credit
They have great credit
They have better credit than I
Do
I died my hair brown today
Rinsed it with the water from Notre Dame
But the water didn’t seem so pure this time round
The water didn’t seem so pure this time
Is that a good omen or a bad omen?
I don’t know
But I can tell you this
Never take a shower with out a curtain
Cause all the ghosts can see in
And they’ll stare
And they won’t look away
Cause they think it’s okay
Cause they’re dead

This is from a recent book project of mine on Little Women by Louisa May Alcott... Beth, the second youngest of four sisters at 13, has a terrible bout with scarlet fever at one point in the book and enters a state of painful delusion and sickness. She's a very musical character and the family very much misses having her play piano for them when they sing each night before going to sleep.

Fevers don’t share.
They hardly allow for breaths,
consciousness, patience to care!
& a musical soul is
no exception for this
in a state that admits
little
but the heat.

So this is a song i wrote a couple weeks ago...feedback is welcome!!! Also, there might be a few changes to the words in the the song, but only minor things.

Lyrics:

It's been a long time since i let down my disguise
and let the world see what i was feeling inside
It's not easy to be everything that you see
'cause it's not who i am, not who i wanna be

CHORUS:
You see the courage, the strength that keeps my head high
It's the face i put on when i'm shaking inside
You see the cover i keep 'cause i'm trying to hide
from the world
I'm not that girl

We hurt
so we medicate.

Our bones ache and our fingers bleed and our minds are nothing but tattered balls of yarn
so we medicate.
Nevermind the fact that this is
beautiful.
Our tattered minds are the only thing
holding the world together.

Our hearts develop cracks and tears from being thrown around too much over time
so we medicate.
We don't realize that all we
need
is someone to pick it up and dust it off and
give it back to us.

(Language alert -- gg)
(So. This is what happens when I play with Audacity instead of writing my Iliad essay. It's... odd, I suppose. The original wording is given, though the final copy did not stay entirely true to the first. Eh.

Riboflavin be with you.
-Neon)

Ehahahahahahaho…
scritch-scrun-scritch-scrun-scritch-scrun-CRANK
Hello, and welcome to the International Festival of –

It’s the six o’clock news on channel negative three,
your most trusted source this plane of infinity,
sponsored by SkyPass, saving your ass and booking first class
to any dimension you choose—
but first, the news.

It’s been a long and hot day for the folks in your head.
The sand is bleached white and the sky is burned red
and most of the grass you planted is dead, is dead, is dead, instead.
There’s a violin playing just out of your sight
and it’s driving you bonkers late in the night
and all that you want is to just find a light to shine, and see
the source of the song

This disparity, discrepancy, duality of two-worlds-in-one-head of a reality, of a word that by my definition has no definition anymore, has no meaning nor significance to my day-by-day existentialist existence that for a lack of a better word I call my life. Sometimes I admit I am inclined to lie back in my chair and stare at the sky and ask, “What does it all mean?” It’s just a thing I do. I don’t expect a solution, resolution, absolute absolution; I’m not that dense. I prefer to quip a snarky “Forty-two” and that’s the best answer I’ve found as of yet: Nonsense.

Thanks, naturally, to Special. Wonderful poem. I wanted to slam it because I've been trying to write it for a while now... If there are mistakes, it's because this was the first time I'd ever spoken these words. One rather obvious one is when my brain told me to say 'the terms' and my body rebelled. Good thing, too - the the is not in there.

Nouns
People, places, things
We are not
We mean actions, movements
What we are is verbs
In an
Unspoken tense.

I am
You are
He is
She is
They are
We are
We are

Nouns,
No, that makes no sense
I am not somewhere you can go
Something you can pick up
Hold.
We are
Written, we are spoken, thought
I am
You are
We are defined by the things we do.

It is physically impossible, a contradiction of
Terms, for us to be anything
But who we are.
There’s no pretending.
We are simple, basic
We can be conjugated
Untangled
Found.
So don’t call me a

A lot can happen in a year.
Stories read and stories told
and stories lost and found and then
old by the time they’re told again
by lips so young and mirrored minds
closer than they appear—
by a year—

Do you remember the rain?
The lighting shooting down, the pain,
the way ink trickled to the ground
like—blood. I bled
with every word I wrote,
every word I read,
every poem,
every note,
every stroke of lighting through my head.
And with every drop of ink, of rain
I went a little more insane—

Had some free time so I finally tried to do this. Do tell what you think, and I will continue with the rest of the script (here: http://www.youngwritersproject.org/node/16335 ) at a later date.

Enjoy.

Oh, yes, and again, a warning to those of you easily offended:

TREAD CAREFULLY.

“So the guy kisses me on the cheek, I turn to him before the centurions grab me, and I say, ‘So you really are bi, aren’t you, Judas?”

“Ha oh ho, oh, son. You always were better at humor than me.”

In English class, we're wrapping up our unit on Frankenstein with a project, and I decided to write a song. For those of you who haven't read the book, I'll give you a brief synopsis so that the song has more context:

Victor Frankenstein decides to create human life in his quest for glory. His creation, however, is physically abhorrent. He takes one look at his creation and abandons it. Meanwhile, the "monster" teaches himself how to read and speak, and observes human interaction. Besides the fact that he was created through science, he proves himself to be an intelligent and capable human being. Essentially, the rejection from his "parent" and from society is what drives him to become a monster. This theme of "the effects of rejection" is what I'm focusing on in the song.