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Creativity is merely a plus name for regular activity. Any activity becomes creative when the doer cares about doing it right, or better.

quote by John Updike
Added by Lucian Velea
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With A Slacking Done To Piggyback

With a slacking done to piggyback.
Some boot the doer,
Strapped in a saddle and allowing that.
Some boot the doer,
All day long.
And showing strength,
With a disposition strong.

With a knick-knack paddywhack,
Slapped and smacked back...
Some boot the doer.
Pity patters chit chat.
Some boot the doer.
And all day long...
Showing strength is the doer.
The doer shows strength and is strong.

Que cherche-tu mais oui beaucoup...
Some boot the doer.
Yes,
It's true.

Very much of this if you look for it.
Some boot the doer.
Yes,
And quick!

Strapped in a saddle and allowing that.
Some boot the doer.
Some boot the doer.
With a slacking done to piggyback.
Some boot the doer.
Some boot the doer.
With a knick-knack paddywhack,
Slapped and smacked back...
Some boot the doer.
Some boot the doer.
Que cherche-tu mais oui beaucoup...
Some boot the doer.
Yes,
It's true.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
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Regular Guy

Im the kind of guy a girl takes home to mom
Pleated khaki pants, and cologne thats the bomb
(you sure smell perty)
Shake her dads hand
Look him in the eye
And tell him straight up Im just a regular guy (ill have her home by 9 sir)
Im a regular guy who stays out of trouble( let me get that for you mam)
A regular guy says mam on the double( Im on it)
Im a regular guy just like dawsons creek
A regular guy just dont call me a geek, a geek yeah
But sometimes I remember what got me here
It was friday and cussing
Back off Im in a boy band
And showing no fear
I watch jay leno (hes funny) 7th heaven too
And I ask myself sometimes what would jesus do
Grab me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change
Im buds with my mom
And I hang out with my dad..hes my buddy
I play everything safe so Ill never be sad (boo hoo)
Im a regular guy who stays out of trouble( let me get that for you mam)
A regular guy says mam on the double( Im on it)
Im a regular guy just like dawsons creek
A regular guy just dont call me a geek, a geek yeah
Dont push me.
Damnt sometimes I wanna smash things up
Jacked up and wrapped upIm in a boy band.. a boyband
And have to pee in a cup
Im a regular guy who stays out of trouble( let me get that for you mam)
A regular guy says mam on the double( Im on it)
Im a regular guy just like dawsons creek
A regular guy just dont call me a geek, a geek yeah

song performed by 2gether
Added by Lucian Velea
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Magpie, My Keeper, Is Flying - Upon Freeing the Gift of Creativity Turned Inward

.
for Elaine Bellezza, Beloved Anima-as-Fate

'There is only one real deprivation, I decided this morning, and that is not to be able to give one's gift to those one loves most...The gift turned inward, unable to be given, becomes a heavy burden, even sometimes a kind of poison. It is as though the flow of life were backed up.' - May Sarton, Journal of a Solitude

This afternoon while still somewhat hungover from last night's rich meal and several glasses of strong red wine, I stumbled as one does when hungover, only today without feet but with eyes, upon the above quote by May Sarton. I had awakened this morning with fragments of a dream, repetitive of other dreams the past few months, where I am carrying something precious and just cannot put it down in any old place or upon just any available surface. I cannot put it down until I find the right surface and location.

These dreams are full of torrential flood waters, or backed up, stagnant water, toilets full of filth and pungent bright orange dark urine days old and fermenting. I cannot unhand the burden even though the urge to pee or flee or drive a car away or into flood waters is strong. I must not put down the burden odd as it is; it is my laptop carrying case made of canvas. It is large enough to carry not only my laptop but also many books with which I cannot, will not be parted from as they are the must-have-with-me-always 'bread', my staple and stability in a given to me world out of balance.

I have understood the dreams only a little - something within the psyche is flooding up, over-spilling or has already, has not been adequately canalized, channeled, streamed and guided, shaped and formed. Or flushed. I knew that eventually, as dreams do when one sits consciously, patiently, persistently with them, they would yield their messages to me, and upon revelation these must be obeyed, brought out into the world, Carl Jung having said that one has a moral responsibility to dreams once they are kenned and must be conscientiously acted upon in the outer world. Just dreaming is not enough. Everyone dreams but not very many know to dream them out into the world, to let their messages unfurl, flood and flow to bring forth new consciousness, to reshape old forms no longer adequate to self, place and time into symbol and their sense, usually not literal.

And thus, only just now, upon opening up haphazardly in a book about Dostoevsky and his struggle with addictions which mirror the profound compulsion to create at any cost perhaps beyond one's capacities to renew oneself, I find May Sarton's quote and suddenly the dreams clarify and sharpen into focus; I understand them as the burden of creativity too long turned inward, the burden of writing, the burden of poetry which I have carried heavily for most of my life since middle school when I was 11 or 12 years old when books became my lifeline, my link to existence that I could live on in spite of not wanting to do so. Written words, books, kept me from disappearing though I was and remain a mostly invisible word.

And thus the floods. One cannot ignore them. Alphabets tumble and roil. One dare not ignore them. One must see them without a choice to not see them. In them I am suddenly made visible, bright orange p*ss pots and all. I am both appalled and pleased. My burden is upon my knees.

The backed up water, the urine, is creativity. A somewhat odd symbol of creativity, there is more than enough evidence that urination is symbolic of self expression which is creativity. In ancient Rome the highly valued dirt from the urinals of boys' schools was collected to be used as a cosmetic in order to restore youthful energy and looks. A young boy, or puer in Latin, is an archetypal symbol of ongoing creativity and inspiration, the puer aeternas, the eternal youth, well springs of ongoing creativity still imaged in solid fountains of the world where eternal waters flow from the peni of cherubic youth.

I have struggled my entire life with a strong urge to create, to write, to express in words that creative daemon within which torments no matter the completion of a poem or essay, a lecture, a psalm. And now my dreams have had me consciously, urgently seeking a place to put the burden down, to perhaps come to it anew. I imagine that landing the burden means bringing it down to earth, manifesting creativity all the more by bringing my efforts to others for the strongest part of the compulsive urge in my creativity has been to contribute one good thing, one good poem or piece of writing which in some way might further the culture even if only by a flea's leg length.

The dreams urge me to let the urine flow, to let the flood waters indeed flood over, to be less self conscious of what I write and say but to have at it all and to say my say. And to let whatever waves there are crest and break upon ever receptive banks and shores whose duty it is to allow what may come from motion without complaint, the more compliant toward as yet to be fully formed purposes as yet to be scored.

Synchronistically, a few days ago I listened to a lecture by poet Allen Ginsberg about Walt Whitman and his imitators, those who were goodly influenced by his effulgent, self indulgent style, his garrulous poems which presumed to express the very expansiveness of the North American continent over-flooded by a plague of itinerant, persistent poachers and prophets from Europe to Eastern disembarkation and then inland and Westward, compelled to overtake land and native peoples in their possessed, pushed wake. Ginsberg imagined himself to be a timely extension of this unruly school, as savage as the projected upon land and justly-resistant, resident humanity stretched beyond known bounds and sounds. Blood drowned and pounded the god-hounded land even now is flooded by unleashed mighty rivers seeking, if rivers seek at all, to undo and renew in horse shoe and other shapes the crimes of consciousness compelled to overtake while leaving it up to human souls to repent and repair, to prepare for more powerful insurgencies of land and Self ever seeking new and nower expressions of dirt and deity. There's enough history beneath layers to support the scarp and scrape of momentary yet monumental motions finally given mouths to utter what lies both beneath and within the heaping huzzahs of here here here full and deep. As in my dream, it is hard to steer in such surpassing tides and currents. Still, I am searching for holy campground that I may lay my burden down.

I have no wish to imitate Whitman nor Ginsberg - though both are easily imitated since they did so themselves, an occupational hazard for writers - but only to be obedient to the daemon, that urgent, emergent, creative force within. It rushes within and against me. No matter whether derived of the grandiose American continent and the even more grandiose sky or not, I have all too successfully braced against it in fear of failure, reprisal or, worse, complete indifference from others. My dreams now urge floods and resultant coagulations, they bring creative splurges to ground from hand to the hard world. And Nature, too, is indifferent but begs none the less and all the more to be given utterance and response.

Respondeo ergo sum. I respond, therefore I am. I respond, therefore the other, earth, all her ants, is as long as there are eyes, ears, and scanning minds to acknowledge and touch, wrestle, caress, shape - some in scansions - outer from inner, inner from outer, landscapes to be all too quickly discarded in time for what is sung just ahead. And seen. Or hoped, all praise to telescopes. We would be they, so addicted to horizons, to bring them close.

Something there is needs completion via coagulation, forming, shaping, and sharing with whomever may be open to clods delivered. If not, rivers will, as they will without reason, continue to overrun their banks and insist upon covering designated previous cultivations. Let then excess of creativity have its say, play out, and leave the critical post-considerations to others. I will surely sit and ponder spent what spills forth, to shape, to edit, to discard. And watch my little yard sink beneath needed and needy floods.

I will have done with deprivation and bring myself, what I have shaped and misshapen, to the world. These things, this burden, have I most loved and felt responsible for, have born the shame of. I have fought and have failed utterly again and again though my attempts have been, and still are, sincere though not blameless. Fear has been my encampment, a longing beneath knowing feet in secret cellars just beyond reach of contracted hands forever spelling hunger. I know open bastion doors and windows to now fling beyond embankments what has been wrung out of my floes and woes though hands wither from too much turning against and inward. What a relief to burst beyond boundaries too long successfully restraining.

I recently wrote a poem about much too too solid bastions of self, of forceful puer energy ramming through and over and into long buried storms and petrified forms, of passion mangling the delusion of 'norms' ignoring too sensitive alarms. Given May Sarton's May revelation this morning I now understand that the poem is about more than eros, it is about that powerful creative/destructive force, the daemon/tyro that ever urges outward intent on making and staking Self in new land and at least one aging man wrenched and rendered from dried and calcified encrustations. I am, to borrow from the insistent dream image, beginning to leak. And to break open.

Archeology - What The Stele Says 'Upon Taking A Much Younger Lover'

That this old ground yields to plow stuns.
What begins to be, earth swell, breaks
root-room open to blood means.

Old skeins tear upon what is new terrain,
hunger worn, long appended. There is
no blame for pain is the blessing.

All hurt now stings twilight quaked into being.
Your breath falls upon me now, taut, sinew,
bruising hand, purple inside flares warrior nerves

[...] Read more

poem by Warren Falcon
Added by Poetry Lover
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Regulate Your Flowing

Poopoop-a-doom-a-doom-a-doom.
Poopoop-a-doom-a -doom-a-doom.
Poopoop-a-doom-a-doom-a-doom.
Bah bah-2-poppa.

Poopoop-a-doom-a-doom-a-doom.
Poopoop-a-doom-a-doom-a-doom.
Poopoop-a-do om-a-doom-a-doom.
Bah bah-2-poppa.

Real neat.
And not a picky eater.
Toasted whole wheat,
With jam-a or rye-i.

Pickled beets,
Mixed with chili and green peppers.
Sweetens a deliciousness,
You've gotta once try!

Poopoop-a-doom-a-doom-a-doom.
Poopoop- a-doom-a-doom-a-doom.
Poopoop-a-doom-a-doom-a- doom.
Bah bah-2-poppa.

Poopoop-a-doom-a-doom-a-doom.
Poopoop-a-doom-a-doom-a-doom.
Poopoop-a-do om-a-doom-a-doom.
Bah bah-2-poppa.

Regulate your flowing,
By going regular.
Regulate your flowing,
By going regular.
Regulate your flowing,
By going regular.
Regulate your flowing,
And go,
Regular.

Real neat.
And not a picky eater.
Toasted whole wheat,
With jam-a or rye-i.

Pickled beets,
Mixed with chili and green peppers.
Sweetens a deliciousness,
You've gotta once try!

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
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Mister 'Do-That-To-Get-Done-Doer

Mister 'Do-That-To-Get-Done-Doer'
Does what it takes,
To accomplish those deeds he needs
To satisfy.

Not one to resist,
Risky challenges that may exist.
Or will he run,
From those that persist with resistance.
He's Mister 'Do-That-To-Get-Done-Doer'.
That he is.
And this is the life he has chosen to live!

Mister 'Do-That-To-Get-Done-Doer'
Knows when to do that,
And not back track.
Enjoying the notion he does not slack.
Not him.
Dissect and remove,
If he has to correct.

He's Mister 'Do-That-To-Get-Done-Doer'.
That he is.
And this is the life he has chosen to live!

Nothing stops him!
And if he has to crawl,
To get done what he does...
He will.
With skills!
And a sacrificial will he has to fulfill.

Mister 'Do-That-To-Get-Done-Doer'
Does what it is...
He has to do,
To do what it takes to get a job done right!
And that is the reason he has been called,
To lead!

Dedicated To:
President Barack H. Obama
United States

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
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Wake Up!

You put your cleanest dirty shirt on
Then you stagger down to meet the dawn
You take a ride upon a bus, its just a fuss
You know it keeps you born
You get to know a morning face
You get to join the human race
You get to know the world
Has passed you by
Who cares? you might be dead
Who cares? you stayed in bed
Who cares? you wrote the note
Who cares? you might have spoke
Wake up!
You take a snack to fill the gap
And then youre ready for another shift
Your attention was diverted
By the girl who smiled and made the lift
The radio is blaring out
Its in one ear and then its out
You didnt notice that the records over
Who cares? you might be dead
Who cares? you stayed in bed
Who cares? you wrote the note
Who cares? you might have spoke
Wake up!
In the road a crowd had gathered
And a man was close to dead
The blood is running down the gutter
While youre yawning, nothings said
His bodys wriggling like an eel
They got no sense, no touch, no feel
Somebody better go and get a blanket
Who cares? you might be dead
Who cares? you stayed in bed
Who cares? you wrote the note
Who cares? you might have spoke
Who cares?

song performed by Xtc
Added by Lucian Velea
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Reputation

(brian spence)
(reputation) - (repeat x 12)
Theyre gonna want you
Theyre gonna love you
Theyre gonna make your dreams come true
They dont know the real you, but
Theyre gonna steal you, oh
Theyre gonna take my dreams away
Well you tried, you looked for a way
Of keeping your face, of keeping your face, oh, oh
(reputation)
You try and you try again
(isnt worth the patience)
You leave me to cry again
(who cares what theyre thinking? ) oh, oh
(who cares what theyre whispering? , whispering, whispering)
You know I wont blame you
And I wont defame you, oh
I wont name you in any court of law
Well you tried, you looked for a way
Of keeping your face, of keeping your face, oh, oh
(reputation)
You try and you try again
(isnt worth the patience)
You leave me to cry again
(who cares what theyre thinking? ) oh, oh
(who cares what theyre whispering? , whispering)
Theyre whispering
(reputation)
You try and you try again
(isnt worth the patience)
You leave me to cry again
(who cares what theyre thinking? ) baby
(who cares what theyre whispering? , whispering, whispering), ooh, ooh
You leave me to cry again
Well you tried
Baby, you looked for a way, oh
You dont want to change, but
You still change the same, oh
(reputation)
You try and you try again
(isnt worth the patience)
You leave me to cry again
(who cares what theyre thinking? ) oh, oh
(who cares what theyre whispering, whispering? )
Theyre whispering
(reputation)
You try and you try again
(isnt worth the patience)
You leave me to cry again

[...] Read more

song performed by Dusty Springfield
Added by Lucian Velea
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Giving Up To Give Away

You're just another who has run out of luck.
And living amongst the others,
Who have decided...
To throw their hands up!

You're just another one seen,
Not to be around them to strut.
With a chosen disposition,
As if to say, 'So what! , if I sit around on my butt.'

Who cares,
If initiative is not there?
Who cares,
If initiative is not there?
Who cares,
If initiative is not there?
With a bottled up...
Giving up!

Who cares,
If they're living in a danger?
Who cares,
About a pain feeling stranger?
Who cares,
If they're living in a danger?
With a bottled up...
Giving up!

You're just another who has run out of luck.
And living amongst the others,
Who have decided...
To throw their hands up!

And who cares,
If you're living in a danger.
Who cares,
About a pain feeling stranger.
Who cares,
If you're living in a danger?
With a bottled up...
Giving up!

Who cares,
If initiative is not there?
Who cares,
If initiative is not there?
Who cares,
If initiative is not there?
With a bottled up...
Giving up to give away!

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
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Who cares? - Nobody Cares.

No-body cares!
if I die, or You die
no-body cares!
if i cry, or your cry
no-body cares!
if you move out or i stay
no-body cares!
if your hurt or I'm hurt
no-body cares!
i fail, win or gain any form of victory
no-body cares!
if your job-less and i be skint, and out of pocket
no-body cares!
if your being abused, I'm being abused behind closed doors
no-body cares!
if there is justice for me and no-justice for you
no-body cares!
if my child is known, and yours be UN-known
no-body cares!
if there are wars in my country, wars in your country
no-body cares!
no-body cares! no-body dare's to put a 'STOP' sign up!

poem by Noorie Ali
Added by Poetry Lover
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Creativity Can't Make Up For Depression

Creativity cannot make up for depression
which it attempts to cure,
it can’t replace it with the kind of supersession
that made spurious lure
of Christianity when it induced some Jews
to make up for their loss
of their identity, condemned, they thought, to lose
unless they chose the cross.
No, creativity provides a transient high,
and then becomes a wraith,
for those who’re so depressed they find they cannot fly,
because they’ve lost their faith
in their ability to reproduce success,
which if it is not con-
stantly repeated is a letter whose address
appears to be, “Dear John.”

Inspired by an article (“In Praise of the Crack-U: A novelist peers through darkness to find glittering gems in writing and art”) , by the South African-born novelist Jeanette Winterson, lesbian lover of Julian Barnes’s widow, Pat Kavanagh, in the October 17,2009 WSJ (A report about her lesbian relations includes the information: Blessed with good looks that led many to compare her to Katharine Hepburn, she secured a nonspeaking part in Under Milk Wood. “I never got paid, but I did get to snog Richard Burton, ” she said) . Winterson writes:
The stories are well known; Vincent Van Gogh cut off his ear and went mad. Sylvia Plath gassed herself. Anne Sexton committed suicide. Emily Dickinson was manic-depressive. Virginia Woolf worked through alternating bouts of madness and depression for most of her life. The mad, bad and dangerous wild boys of high art and popular culture make great copy—whether it's Caravaggio on the run for murder after one of his rages, or Allen Ginsberg, naked and drunk, howling through Manhattan. The women—Plath, Frida Kahlo, Maria Callas, Janis Joplin—imploding like dark stars, are the stuff of obsession…. Longing is painful. Every work of art is an attempt to bring into being the object of loss. The pictures, the music, the poems and the performances are an intense engagement with loss. While one is in the act of making, one is not in loss, and one has meaning. The fierce crashes that happen to many creative people when a piece of work is done (read Hemingway on this) come out of the sense that however good the work, it has not answered the loss. The strange thing about creative work is that it can have enormous value for others while its maker is left ravaged. The ancient Greeks understood this as the price of an encounter with a god—the divine forces enter the human and use him or her as an instrument, only to be ultimately destroyed. But I do not believe that creativity is destructive or divine. I believe it is the part of us that gives shape and voice to our innermost reality. This is frightening. Encounters with the real, in particular what we really feel, are something we generally try to avoid. Art mediates the encounter, allowing us to get nearer to our longing and our loss, to risk more, to dare more. Yet for the maker, the exposure is not mediated; it is total and terrifying. That is why so many creative people cut themselves off from their own experience, using drugs or drink or sex or shipwreck to avoid absolute exposure to the pain of creativity. When Whitman turned to face his dark angel, to wrestle with himself, he was acknowledging his own loss, his own longing, his own unstaunched wound.

10/18/09

poem by Gershon Hepner
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Creativity is merely a plus name for regular activity . . . any activity becomes creative when the doer cares about dong it right, or better.

quote by John Updike
Added by Lucian Velea
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My Baby Just Cares For Me

(1928) gus kahn, walter donaldson
My baby dont care for shows
My baby dont care for clothes
My baby just cares for me
My baby dont care for cars and races
My baby dont care for high-tone places
Liz taylor is not his style
And even lana turners smile
Is somethin he cant see
My baby dont care who knows
My baby just cares for me
Baby, my baby dont care for shows
And he dont even care for clothes
He cares for me
My baby dont care
For cars and races
My baby dont care for
He dont care for high-tone places
Liz taylor is not his style
And even liberaces smile
Is something he cant see
Is something he cant see
I wonder whats wrong with baby
My baby just cares for
My baby just cares for
My baby just cares for me
Original lyrics
My baby dont care for shows
My baby dont care for clothes
My baby just cares for me
My baby dont care for cars and races
My baby dont care for high-tone places
Liz taylor is not his style
And even lana turners smile
Is somethin he cant see
My baby dont care who knows it
My baby just cares for me
My baby dont care for shows
And he dont even care for clothes
My baby just cares for me
My baby dont care for cars and races
My baby dont care for
He dont care for high-tone places
I wonder whats wrong with baby
My baby just cares for
Just says his prayers for
My baby just cares for me

song performed by Nina Simone
Added by Lucian Velea
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My Baby Just Care For Me

(1928) Gus Kahn, Walter Donaldson
My baby don't care for shows
My baby don't care for clothes
My baby just cares for me
My baby don't care for cars and races
My baby don't care for high-tone places
Liz Taylor is not his style
And even Lana Turner's smile
Is somethin' he can't see
My baby don't care who knows
My baby just cares for me
Baby, my baby don't care for shows
And he don't even care for clothes
He cares for me
My baby don't care
For cars and races
My baby don't care for
He don't care for high-tone places
Liz Taylor is not his style
And even Liberace's smile
Is something he can't see
Is something he can't see
I wonder what's wrong with baby
My baby just cares for
My baby just cares for
My baby just cares for me
Original lyrics
My baby don't care for shows
My baby don't care for clothes
My baby just cares for me
My baby don't care for cars and races
My baby don't care for high-tone places
Liz Taylor is not his style
And even Lana Turner's smile
is somethin' he can't see
My baby don't care who knows it
My baby just cares for me
My baby don't care for shows
And he don't even care for clothes
My baby just cares for me
My baby don't care for cars and races
My baby don't care for
he don't care for high-tone places
I wonder what's wrong with baby
My baby just cares for
Just says his prayers for
My baby just cares for me

song performed by Nina Simone
Added by Lucian Velea
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Unaffected By Personal Critique

To do that which one seeks done,
Often has nothing to do with receiving attention.
And...
The attention given to what one does,
May be the result of the deed.
And only the deed.
Not the doings of the doer to keep an ego pleased.

Confusing those who critique the doer...
As those deeds of the doer increases in value.
Leaving those who critique,
Confused and misunderstanding...
Why the doer continues to beem and dance,
Unaffected...
By personal critique.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
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Didn't You Say This Before?

In the doing of what it takes to get things done,
By a doer...
Why is it,
There are those who do not know what a doer does...
Yet,
There they are...
Appearing from nowhere,
With their mouths opened...
Rattling off their unsolicited and nagging suggestions,
As to how anyone who does what they do...
Should do what they suggest while they,
Do absolutely nothing,
But argue with the doer of a doing that gets done.
With a wasting of that doer's time?

'Didn't you say this before?
This is sounding familiar.'

YES.
And somehow you just can not get the hint!

'Maybe because I have no clue what it is you are talking about.
And who is the dodoer not doing the dodo to the dude.'

HOPELESS I tell you.
It's a 'hope' that's getting 'less'.

'And now you want to change the subject.
And you always tell me,
I am the one not knowing how to communicate?
I am the only one who makes attempts to do it with you.
But NOOOO...
You want to talk about toilets and who uses them.
You've got a problem and you don't want to face it.'

I know.
You're right.
I do.
I agree.
I need some time alone.
Maybe that's what I need.
Some time to myself.
To get some rest.

'I understand.
Give me a call if you need me for anything.
You know I'm on your side.
You take it easy, okay?
Don't stress over it.
Let it go.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
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Who Cares?

Tell me, jesus,
Are you angry?
One more sheep has,
Just gone astray
A hardening of hearts,
Turning to stone
Wandering off,
So far from home
So many children,
Losing time
Walk in darkness,
Looking for a sign
Chasing their rainbows,
The future looks so bright
Slowly were losing,
Sight of the light
Who cares?
Who cares?
Who cares?
Tell me who cares?
Who cares?
All alone,
Out in the cold
Cant look back,
Am I growing old
I chose a path,
Is this my fate
Am I finding out,
The truth too late
Chorus
Here I am,
A naked man
Nothing to hide
With empty hands
Remember me,
I am the one
Who lost his way,
Your prodigal son
Who cares?
Who cares?
Who cares?
Tell me who cares?
Who cares?
Am I ever gonna change
Will I always stay the same
Say one thing
Then I do the other
Same old song
Goes on forever
Rise, rise n shine

[...] Read more

song performed by Extreme
Added by Lucian Velea
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Part Iii: Who Cares?

Tell me, jesus,
Are you angry?
One more sheep has,
Just gone astray
A hardening of hearts,
Turning to stone
Wandering off,
So far from home
So many children,
Losing time
Walk in darkness,
Looking for a sign
Chasing their rainbows,
The future looks so bright
Slowly were losing,
Sight of the light
Who cares?
Who cares?
Who cares?
Tell me who cares?
Who cares?
All alone,
Out in the cold
Cant look back,
Am I growing old
I chose a path,
Is this my fate
Am I finding out,
The truth too late
Chorus
Here I am,
A naked man
Nothing to hide
With empty hands
Remember me,
I am the one
Who lost his way,
Your prodigal son
Who cares?
Who cares?
Who cares?
Tell me who cares?
Who cares?
Am I ever gonna change
Will I always stay the same
Say one thing
Then I do the other
Same old song
Goes on forever
Rise, rise n shine

[...] Read more

song performed by Extreme
Added by Lucian Velea
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Lets See Action

Lets see action, lets see people,
Lets see action, lets see people,
Lets see freedom, lets see who cares,
Lets see freedom, lets see who cares,
Take me with you when you leave me
Take me with you when you leave me
And my shell behind us there.
And my shell behind us there.
I have learned it, known who burned me,
I have learned it, known who burned me,
Avatar has warmed my feet,
Avatar has warmed my feet,
Take me with you, let me see you,
Take me with you, let me see you,
Time and life can meet.
Time and life can meet.
Nothing is everything, everything is, nothing is,
Nothing is everything, everything is, nothing is,
Please the people, audiences,
Please the people, audiences,
Break the fences,
Break the fences,
Nothing is.
Nothing is.
Lets see action, lets see people,
Lets see action, lets see people,
Lets see freedom up in the air,
Lets see freedom up in the air,
Lets see action, lets see people,
Lets see action, lets see people,
Lets be free, lets see who cares.
Lets be free, lets see who cares.
Lets see action, lets see people,
Lets see action, lets see people,
Lets see freedom up in the air,
Lets see freedom up in the air,
Lets see action, lets see people,
Lets see action, lets see people,
Lets be free, lets see who cares.
Lets be free, lets see who cares.
Give me a drink boy, wash my feet,
Give me a drink boy, wash my feet,
Im so tired of running from my own heat,
Im so tired of running from my own heat,
Take this package and heres what you do,
Take this package and heres what you do,
Gonna get this information through.
Gonna get this information through.
I dont know where Im going,
I dont know where Im going,

[...] Read more

song performed by Who
Added by Lucian Velea
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I'm Just So Sorry But No One Cares About You(Revised In Line Form)

No one cares.
I'm just so sorry but no one cares about you.
No reason to get upset.
Do your own thing as you always do.
Let the time fade.
Follow the suns escape.
Take me somewhere, anywhere but here.
Like a ghost I just want to disappear.
It removes all fear.
Preparing for another sacrifice.
Such is life.

No one cares.
I'm just so sorry, but no one cares about you.
Marching to my own rhythm.
Lead or follow.
Where do you go when the heart becomes so hollow?
How do you fill the void?
Are you feeling a little paranoid?
Trust no one.

All because no one cares.
I'm just so sorry, but no cares about you.
All alone,
Naked and full of shame.
Who's really to blame?
Do you admit the fault as your own?
Or do you mention someones name and complain?
Are you insane?
Completely mad.
A mad hatter off his rocker just a little bit.

All because no one cares.
I'm just so sorry but no one cares about you.
Oh about you.
It's always about you.
No such thing as a selfless act.
This is a fact.
Nothing for free.
This is a favor that can be later be redeemed! ! !

All because no one cares,
I'm just so sorry but no one cares about you.

poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
Added by Poetry Lover
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Sometimes.. all the times

Sometimes I keep on building high walls around me
Not to keep myself away
But to see who cares enough to break them all
Who cares enough to make them fall

Sometimes I keep on constructing barriers around my heart
Not to keep my heart safe
But to see who cares enough to start

Sometimes I keep myself inside a fence
Not as a defense
But rather to see who really feels me... who has enough sense

Sometimes I keep on creating obstacles for whoever wants me close
Not to play “hard to get”
But rather to know why am I the one he chose?

Sometimes I prefer to be isolated
Not to be lonely …
But rather to see who cares enough to come close and approach me

Sometimes I prefer to be remote
Not because of fear
But rather to see who cares enough to be near

Sometimes I prefer to keep the distance
Not to act arrogant
But rather to see who cares enough to be persistent

Sometimes I do not take any initiative
Not because I’m acting so protective
But to know to whom am I really attractive

Sometimes I intend to be passive
Not to show no interest
But to see who cares enough to be impressive

Sometimes I intend to be mysterious
Not because I want to look serious
But rather to see who cares enough to be curious

Sometimes I intend to be unsocial
Not to be rude
But rather to see to whom am I really special

Sometimes I keep on wearing masks hiding my real self
Not to pretend
But rather to see who will remove them in the end

Sometimes I keep all my secrets covered

[...] Read more

poem by anonym
Added by Poetry Lover
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