The brushes of the winter wind Whisk across the cottage windows. Only in the darkness do they paint For they are shy And work best in the night. When the world is fast asleep They come They come across the freezing moor Peering in the windows of all the houses. Riding the tendrils of clouds Carried along by the gusts of chilly wind. They come to each window And dip their brushes in the frosty air. Then they create They paint small spirals and designs all over the glass. They dance through the winter air and dab at their canvas. When each window is a masterpiece They retreat back to the sky. In the morning, The children walk up and gasp in surprise at the painters work. They use their fingers to add their own touches to the frosty art. Soon the sun Melts away their work Clearing the canvas So the winter painters can cover them once more.
Background: I wrote this song awhile ago, for the Martin Luther King Day of 2018. As I was looking through files on my computer, I found it again and listened. I thought about how we need more people like MLK in our world today, and how we need to realize this more often instead of on just one day of the year. This is why I'm sharing this song now.
The lyrics are below, and there's also a recording above (the recording at the bottom is the same; please disregard it). I'm the singer, and my former English teacher played the guitar. The song is titled "The Dream Lives On".
One night I woke up Wishing I’d stayed asleep, Walking into a world Different in my dream.
Such terrible suffering around me, When will humans solve the inequality?
A woman hurries down the street, her pale hands pulling a coat tighter against the cold. Her long auburn hair tumbles down her back in loose waves. The brisk air bites at her nose and cheeks, turning them a rosy pink. The red scarf she wears around her neck pops against her paling skin and dark coat. Her tan, freckled skin and blond hair from Summer is gone, along with the glowing, golden brown hair from Spring. The tips of her hair are already fading into a muddy brown color, for winter is coming. Her breath puffs out through crimson lips, wafting like a cloud of smoke in the cold air. Her shoes click-clack loudly on the cracked pavement, drawing the attention of others. She walks with purpose, shoulders squared and head high. She pops in a sea of people, all in different stages of transformation. Red, orange, yellow and brown hues surround her on all sides. A rush of warm bodies, pumping hearts, and hurried strides.
Salt and pepper purled carpets smelled of sultry dandelion fluff, the sun illuminating the cinnamon lincoln-log blocks resting on the dove-threaded swells. (Is there peace in a metric rectangle, perched on the clashing seas?)
The hickory seeds would take to their feathers as we kicked through their sunny fluff, I'd see the full-seeded flower head as a globe where the equidistant inhabitants raised their wizened brows in triumph. (How long ago did you realize the world could never be that sage?)
Those dandelions are stitched into the foreground of my memory, though even then I knew why the fences wore obsidian arrows: the stones in this meadow were graves. (Did you know any of the dead, or are you searching again for kinder strangers?)
We searched for the most distant date, one eights, one sevens, last two digits trailing...
If I could speak my mind Like you could speak your heart If I could say I tried Then maybe we wouldn't be apart If I could stay away From the concept I called "golden pain" Then maybe to this day We wouldn't call it a game Is the cost a tear? Or is it a smile? My words can reach her ears But they won't reach her mind for a little while If she could've kept her head She just might have been someone instead But she said what shouldn't have been said And now she's... If we would speak our minds Like she could speak her heart If we really had tried Then maybe she wouldn't have to depart She could've stayed away From the hearts that would give her pain Then maybe to this day I could call her name
I'm a beginner guitarist having a try at songwriting... I'm not sure how it sounds, hopefully it's decent...
Lyrics: Well you're so great and I can't get over the modest things you've said You're so very amazed with yourself, you're a star in your own head Who did you think would be lining up to be your backup crew? Open your eyes, to your surprise there's no one there but you When will it be enough? What would it all be for? You had everything But you wanted more Here you come, the one and only Not at the top but you're still lonely Who will you turn to for help Now that you've lost all to yourself? When will it be enough? What would it all be for? You had everything But you wanted more
Dear America, What would have happened if we never stole this land? Never polluted it with our cold superiority, our ships swarming with sickly death, our flashing bullets thirsting for blood.
If the people native to this land, who tended it as a arboreous, continental garden, were allowed to remain, in entirety?
Rather than as the scattered splinters of the last tree standing in a sacred forest, burned to the ground by the unquenchable flames of greed. Dear Europe, how do you feel that your reckless descendants have polluted The New World worse than the old?
That they have crushed it beneath hundreds, thousands, 6.5 million pairs of heeled boots and polished dress shoes, stilettos and Nikes,
Toppling the refuge of ancient forests, Soiling the clear waters with the mud caking their soles,