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But as a writer and performer, I want to get paid for what I do.

quote by Debbie Harry
Added by Lucian Velea
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I Paid The Price

See notes below
Well Im sick and tired
Of your alibis,
And your indiscreet lies
Just wont get you by,
Over and over and over and over again.
And your family,
Your forced superiority,
Your azure delusions of grandeur,
Are gonna cut you free,
Over and over and over and over again.
Youre as cold as ice.
Ahh, youre not miss nice,
And I paid the price.
Ahh, you can count me out.
Oh, without a doubt,
I paid the price.
And up and down, round, round you go,
But you know one monkey
Dont stop no show.
Its plain to see
Youre in need of help,
But I just cant go on
And whip myself
Over and over and over, over again.
Ahh, you can count me out.
Ahh, without a doubt,
You know, I paid the price.
Ahh, youre not miss nice.
Youre as cold as ice,
And I paid the price.
Yes I did.
You know I did.
And I just wanna know
Whos your sponsor.
I just wanna know, oh,
I just a-wanna know, oh,
I just a-wanna know, oh,
Whos your angel.
{backup singers} [i paid the price.]
Sing the song.
[i paid the price.]
[i paid the price.]
[i paid the price.]
And dont discriminate your angel.
[i paid the price.]
And dont discriminate your sponsor.
[i paid the price.]
And be good to your angel.
[i paid the price.]

[...] Read more

song performed by Van Morrison
Added by Lucian Velea
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Paperback Writer

(LennonMcCartney)
Paperback writer
Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book?
It took me years to write, will you take a look?
It's based on a novel by a man named Lear
And I need a job, so I want to be a paperback writer
Paperback writer
It's the dirty story of a dirty man
And his clinging wife doesn't understand
His son is working for the Daily Mail
It's a steady job but he wants to be a paperback writer
Paperback writer
Paperback writer
It's a thousand pages, give or take a few
I'll be writing more in a week or two
I can make it longer if you like the style
I can change it round and I want to be a paperback writer
Paperback writer
If you really like it you can have the rights
It could make a million for you overnight
If you must return it, you can send it here
But I need a break and I want to be a paperback writer
Paperback writer
Paperback writer
Paperback writer, paperback writer
Paperback writer, paperback writer
Paperback writer, paperback writer
Paperback writer, paperback writer (fade out)

song performed by Paul McCartney
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Writer's Dream

A writer wrote of the hearts of men, and he followed their tracks afar;
For his was a spirit that forced his pen to write of the things that are.
His heart grew tired of the truths he told, for his life was hard and grim;
His land seemed barren, its people cold—yet the world was dear to him;—
So he sailed away from the Streets of Strife, he travelled by land and sea,
In search of a people who lived a life as life in the world should be.
And he reached a spot where the scene was fair, with forest and field and wood,
And all things came with the seasons there, and each of its kind was good;
There were mountain-rivers and peaks of snow, there were lights of green and gold,
And echoing caves in the cliffs below, where a world-wide ocean rolled.
The lives of men from the wear of Change and the strife of the world were free—
For Steam was barred by the mountain-range and the rocks of the Open Sea.

And the last that were born of a noble race—when the page of the South was fair—
The last of the conquered dwelt in peace with the last of the victors there.
He saw their hearts with the author’s eyes who had written their ancient lore,
And he saw their lives as he’d dreamed of such—ah! many a year before.
And ‘I’ll write a book of these simple folk ere I to the world return,
‘And the cold who read shall be kind for these—and the wise who read shall learn.

‘Never again in a song of mine shall a jarring note be heard:
‘Never again shall a page or line be marred by a bitter word;
‘But love and laughter and kindly hours will the book I’ll write recall,
‘With chastening tears for the loss of one, and sighs for their sorrows all.
‘Old eyes will light with a kindly smile, and the young eyes dance with glee—
‘And the heart of the cynic will rest awhile for my simple folk and me.’

The lines ran on as he dipped his pen—ran true to his heart and ear—
Like the brighter pages of memory when every line is clear.
The pictures came and the pictures passed, like days of love and light—
He saw his chapters from first to last, and he thought it grand to write.
And the writer kissed his girlish wife, and he kissed her twice for pride:
‘’Tis a book of love, though a book of life! and a book you’ll read!’ he cried.

He was blind at first to each senseless slight (for shabby and poor he came)
From local ‘Fashion’ and mortgaged pride that scarce could sign its name.
What dreamer would dream of such paltry pride in a scene so fresh and fair?
But the local spirit intensified—with its pitiful shams—was there;
There were cliques wherever two houses stood (no rest for a family ghost!)
They hated each other as women could—but they hated the stranger most.

The writer wrote by day and night and he cried in the face of Fate—
‘I’ll cleave to my dream of life in spite of the cynical ghosts that wait.
‘’Tis the shyness born of their simple lives,’ he said to the paltry pride—
(The homely tongues of the simple wives ne’er erred on the generous side)—
‘They’ll prove me true and they’ll prove me kind ere the year of grace be passed,’
But the ignorant whisper of ‘axe to grind!’ went home to his heart at last.

The writer sat by his drift-wood fire three nights of the South-east gale,
His pen lay idle on pages vain, for his book was a fairy tale.

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Lawson
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Vacuous Space

Space in the head,
Once getting PAID to lead.
Vacuous meetssssspace in the head,
Once getting PAID to lead.
Vacuous meetssssspace in the head,
Once getting PAID to lead.
And the winners,
Had been the merchants...
Breathing royalty,
On 5th Avenue!

Vacuous meetssssspace in the head,
Once getting PAID to lead.
Vacuous meetssssspace in the head,
Once getting PAID to lead.
And the bleeding of the people....
Had been seen from their limousines!

Vacuous meetssssspace in the head,
Once getting PAID to lead.
Vacuous meetssssspace in the head,
Once getting PAID to lead.
And It's an off beat situation,
To see the homeless
Pushing carts...
Up on these scenes!

Space in the head,
Once getting PAID to lead.
Vacuous space...
In the head,
Once getting paid to lead!
And the trickling of this meanness...
Is a payback for those,
Who had chose to steal
Away sweet dreams!

Vacuous meetssssspace in the head,
Once getting PAID to lead!
It's an off beat situation
Getting fixed...
As the kings are dragged
Screaming
With tainted hands
Bitten and bloodied
By those they chose
To live in tattered clothes
Hungry and suffering
Squeezed from the cream
That was theirs all the time

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Lady Writer

Lady writer on the tv
Talk about the virgin mary
Reminded me of you
Expectation left to come up to yeah
Lady writer on the tv
She had another quality
The way you used to look
And I know you never read a book
Just the way that her hair fell down around her face
And I recall my fall from grace
Another time, another place
Lady writer on the tv
She had all the brains and the beauty
The pictures does not fit
Youd talk to me when you felt like it
Just the way that her hair fell down around her face
And I recall my fall from grace
Another time another place
Yes and your rich old man,
You know hed a call her a dead ringer
You got the same command
Plus your mother was a jazz singer
Just the way that her hair fell down around her face
And I recall my fall from grace
Another time another place
Lady writer on the tv
She knew all about a history
You couldnt hardly write your name
I think I want it just the same as the ...
Lady writer on the tv
Talking about the virgin mary
You know Im talking about you and me
And the lady writer on the tv
Talking about the virgin mary
Yeah you know Im talking about you and me
And the lady writer on the tv

song performed by Dire Straits
Added by Lucian Velea
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Writer- a must?

Out of what does a writer write?
Out of hatred or perversion;
Out of denial or deprivation.

Why does a writer write?
To vent his anger or hatred.
To cry out from pain or lust.

How does a writer write?
By borrowing or distorting.
By modeling or duping.

For what does a writer write?
For an applause and a place.
It alone suits him, an idler.

What is the use of a writer?
For him to flaunt his skill.
For readers to idle away

Does the society need a writer?
Does a woman need cosmetics?
Writer is a part of civilization
16.05.2007.

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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102

First one paid nine
then, two paid eight
then three paid seven
then, four paid six
then five paid five
then six paid four
then seven paid three
then eight paid two
and finally, nine paid one,
wee, wee, wee, wee, wee
all the way home.

poem by Morgan Michaels
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Perform to become a monk and yogi

We perform our duties
Assigned to us
More often than not
Either with anxiety or expectation
Over the rewards or otherwise
Of the product
This ends up with
Either not meeting the requirements
Of the beneficiaries or customers
Or in presenting them with a product
That is beyond their expectations
Both ways
The beneficiary or customer
Accepts the product of our efforts
With a certain bit of reluctance

Krishna talks about a performer
Who performs for the sake of
Performing only
With no anxiety or expectation
On the rewards or otherwise
Of the performance

He says such a performer can also be called
A monk, who, in fact, renounced all
Result-oriented action
And he is also a yogi
Well focused and involved
In what is being performed

Krishna further adds such a person
Should not be categorized as the one
With no fire of desire
For innovation, improvement and
Envisioning and for developing
Systems that will prevent possible
Deviations from the product quality

Such a performer
Should also be not categorized as the one
With no sensitivity
And reacting sense to
Take corrective actions
With regard to process flow
In case a beneficiary or customer comes up
With a complaint on the product
For its non performance
And for its non-conforming to
Specifications desired by him or her

poem by Bashyam Narayanan
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The Cottage With Annalese

Dancing at The Cottage with Annalese
she is my big Sis with dark hair like my niece.
Annalese and me dance to the music
-around the time of eight-
nobody is on the floor except Mouse which is great!
It brings back memories past when I danced to
"Don't Stop ‘til You Get Enough"
which was a blast!
Mouse is dancing on the floor to the beat
I go up to Louis the D.J. very discreet
and ask him to play my favorite dance song
Lois nods and before long
I am with Mouse on the floor
all eyes are on us which no one can ignore.
Annalese hangs out with Ginger her good friend-
Annalese gives Ginger an original birthday gift.
Then Annalese and Ginger get on the floor
and we all dance like never before.
Jimmy the owner is there
grooving cool music fills the air.
Then special performer takes the stage
she sings her song while dancing away.
Singing performer has a little guy on her lap—
Performer asks him questions-
which makes us all laugh.
Then the night comes to a close
I walk to my bike with Annalese
say goodbye and ride safely home.

Written by Suzae Chevalier on March 10,2012

poem by Christina Sunrise
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The Solo Performer

Light dims down to semidarkness
And we wrinkle our eye corners.
Our cloudy vision through a billowy
Dusty curtain picks the figures shadowy.
The performer begins biting the bass.
No accompaniments. His own' super-cell' harmony.
Very conceited the performer overdoes becoming gloomy
And the concert cracks along the octaves
With the burbling sound of notes.
Unbalanced, lo, he becomes angry
And now with dismantled beats and bangs
The performer kicks, rolls, and scrolls
Sounding screaming, crackling, creaky, croaky
With all that improper concerto music squawky
Toppling you and me in thundery shivers.
Everything getting topped up in swirls
Yelling 'tornado tornado'and falling on each other
We run away from that killer twister
Guarding ourselves from that shearing windstorm!

poem by Indira Renganathan
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Annalese At The Cottage

Dancing at The Cottage with Annalese

she is my big Sis with dark hair like my niece.

Annalese and me dance to the music

-around the time of eight-

nobody is on the floor but us which is great!

We dance then Ginger comes in

she is Annalese's good friend.

It is Ginger's birthday and Annalese

made a great original gift—

Ginger loves it, it is very precious.

Also at The Cottage, Jimmy the owner is there

grooving cool music fills the air.

Then a special performer takes the stage

she sings her song while dancing away.

Singing performer has a little guy on her lap—

Performer asks him questions-

which makes us all laugh.

Then the night comes to a close

I walk to my bike with Annalese

say goodbye and ride safely home.

Written by Suzae Chevalier on March 10,2012

poem by Suzae Chevalier
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The Cottage With Annalese

Dancing at The Cottage with Annalese
she is my big Sis with dark hair like my niece.
Annalese and me dance to the music
-around the time of eight-
nobody is on the floor except Mouse which is great!
It brings back memories past when I danced to
"Don't Stop ‘til You Get Enough"
which was a blast!
Mouse is dancing on the floor to the beat
I go up to Louis the D.J. very discreet
and ask him to play my favorite dance song
Lois nods and before long
I am with Mouse on the floor
all eyes are on us which no one can ignore.
Annalese hangs out with Ginger her good friend-
Annalese gives Ginger an original birthday gift.
Then Annalese and Ginger get on the floor
and we all dance like never before.
Jimmy the owner is there
grooving cool music fills the air.
Then special performer takes the stage
she sings her song while dancing away.
Singing performer has a little guy on her lap—
Performer asks him questions-
which makes us all laugh.
Then the night comes to a close
I walk to my bike with Annalese
say goodbye and ride safely home.

Written by Suzae Chevalier on March 10,2012

poem by Suzae Chevalier
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The Writer's Ink

I am the writer's ink,
So just write with me without any fear;
I will move more than expected,
I will write more than expected,
I am the writer's ink.
Use me slowly or even faster,
I will talk more than expected;
I do have the message to teach everyone.
Of the beauty of communication,
I am used by everyone;
I am the writer's ink,
I do make people sad or glad;
My ink makes rulers sad,
My ink makes personalities sad,
My ink makes the common man sad,
The way i am used matters.
I am the writer's ink,
I am not expensive;
Buy me and use me always.
How can a country like Ghana be poor? !
Ghana has gold, oil, cocoa and timber;
There are also diamond, bauxite and other minerals;
How then can Ghana be poor? !
The writer's ink should tell us more.
Mismanagement is the food in the country,
Ghana has really more than it needs;
This country shouldn't be poor.
What the leaders say on air is not,
What we see on the ground;
I am the talkative ready to talk.
I am the writer's ink,
I will always speak the truth!

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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A Writer's Dream

A writer's dream
You keep trying
Never denying to one day achieve
Despite what most believe

A writer's dream
You never give up
Regardless of what others may say
But wait patiently until that day

A writer's dream
Although it's been a while
It made you smile
To see your dream coming through

No matter how long it seemed to you
A writer's dream
You always believed in yourself
That's why your time has come

To be a successful writer
With the privilege of making much income
A writer's dream
You're happy to finally get this far

The world knows just who you are
Now this new sudden fame
Makes you feel like a star

poem by Donielle Smith
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An African writer

I am an african writer
with the melodious lyric
flowing rivers of endless music
with words filled banks
of rhythmic juice

I am an african writer
the flower with the sweetest nectar
colourful juices of flowing oceans
oceans of endless streams

I am an african writer
dwelling by the shrine
in earnest worship to the gods of poetry
invoking my elders before me
warlord of the verbal war

I am an african writer
born with a pot of words
Caressed with the river of the niger
And burnt with the power of endless chatter

I am an african writer
With dead digits and ancient inks
Torn sheets with flee bugs
bestow to a journey of endless music
And beautiful heritage

I am an african writer!
Forged with letters and blood of lines
Strange eyes to a stories side
And rewarded with the gift of true sight!

poem by Venessa Ambrose
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Love A Mortal Who Writes

This be a farce dictation.
But then,
Love a being who writes

Because a writer
Is a liar.

I will lie about how the
Night flames with the warm waters
But you will never believe me
For I am a liar
With a pen and a paper.

Love a writer
For a writer is a soldier
Regardless of state:
A drunken soldier.
An arrogant soldier.
A morose soldier.
A burning soldier.
Whichever.

Love him
For he is a liar.

He is a prolix garden
Of petty things.
He makes the moon an empire,
And the Sun, an asylum.

He will lie about certain things
With sheer beauty
That none of you
Can contain.

Why love a liar, you might ask?
Listen to a painter as he lies
And he will guise himself with
A shallow palette of colors.
Listen to a businessman lie,
And he will be easily defeated
In a warfare of witticism.
Listen to a doctor lie
But then again, science cannot
Feign states or even a love.

And you can think of any other
Occupation that holds a lie,
And I will tell you

[...] Read more

poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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The Writer and The Soldier

The Writer and The Soldier
By
Tolly Rebeka Christian BlackWolf Hawk

The writer writes a sad lament for the love that he lost long
ago,
The soldier mourns the loss of a fellow slain long ago.
The writer has lead and ink on his hands,
The soldier has blood on his.
The writer can wash away the pigments and with them his
memory’s go, but the soldier can only wash the blood on his
skin; he can not wash the blood on his heart nor
The memory’s in his mind,
Burned into his mind with canon fire and the cries of
His falling comrades.
Oh,
When the two meet, they give to each other much needed gifts;
The writer gives the soldier understanding and a few happy
tales to think of when tears try to strike him down,
And the soldier gives the writer a new sad lament to write, and
a new meaning to the word friendship.

Written August 14,2008

poem by Tolly Rebeka Christian BlackWolf Hawk
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II. Half-Rome

What, you, Sir, come too? (Just the man I'd meet.)
Be ruled by me and have a care o' the crowd:
This way, while fresh folk go and get their gaze:
I'll tell you like a book and save your shins.
Fie, what a roaring day we've had! Whose fault?
Lorenzo in Lucina,—here's a church
To hold a crowd at need, accommodate
All comers from the Corso! If this crush
Make not its priests ashamed of what they show
For temple-room, don't prick them to draw purse
And down with bricks and mortar, eke us out
The beggarly transept with its bit of apse
Into a decent space for Christian ease,
Why, to-day's lucky pearl is cast to swine.
Listen and estimate the luck they've had!
(The right man, and I hold him.)

Sir, do you see,
They laid both bodies in the church, this morn
The first thing, on the chancel two steps up,
Behind the little marble balustrade;
Disposed them, Pietro the old murdered fool
To the right of the altar, and his wretched wife
On the other side. In trying to count stabs,
People supposed Violante showed the most,
Till somebody explained us that mistake;
His wounds had been dealt out indifferent where,
But she took all her stabbings in the face,
Since punished thus solely for honour's sake,
Honoris causâ, that's the proper term.
A delicacy there is, our gallants hold,
When you avenge your honour and only then,
That you disfigure the subject, fray the face,
Not just take life and end, in clownish guise.
It was Violante gave the first offence,
Got therefore the conspicuous punishment:
While Pietro, who helped merely, his mere death
Answered the purpose, so his face went free.
We fancied even, free as you please, that face
Showed itself still intolerably wronged;
Was wrinkled over with resentment yet,
Nor calm at all, as murdered faces use,
Once the worst ended: an indignant air
O' the head there was—'t is said the body turned
Round and away, rolled from Violante's side
Where they had laid it loving-husband-like.
If so, if corpses can be sensitive,
Why did not he roll right down altar-step,
Roll on through nave, roll fairly out of church,
Deprive Lorenzo of the spectacle,

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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If I Could

If I could make my living going fishing
Then I would make my living with a line and pole
Put food on the table pay the money to the landlord
Buy some working clothes
Cause I aint making money going fishing like Im paid at the factory
If I could pay all these bills with my guitar
Then I would pay these bills with some rock and roll
Put food on the table pay the money to the landlord
Buy some working clothes
Cause I aint making money playing guitar like Im paid at the factory
Chorus:
Now if I could (if I could)
Then I would (then I would)
Make money doing something that I love
Id thank my lucky stars above
If I could just get by loving you dear
Then I would just get by making love to you
Put food on the table pay the money to the landlord
Buy some working clothes
Cause I aint making money making love
Like Im paid at the factory
Repeat chorus:
If I could make my living going fishing
Then I would make my living with a line and pole
Put food on the table pay the money to the landlord
Buy some working clothes
Cause I aint making money going fishing
Like Im paid at the factory
Repeat chorus:
If I could just get by loving you dear
Then I would just get by making love to you
Put food on the table pay the money to the landlord
Buy some working clothes
Cause I aint making money making love
Like Im paid at the factory
Put food on the table pay the money to the landlord
Buy some working clothes
Cause I aint making money making love
Like Im paid at the factory
Put food on the table pay the money to the landlord
Buy some working clothes
Cause I aint making money making love
Like Im paid at the factory

song performed by John Prine
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Writer

Im the writer got a front page cover
Hot gossip bout whos with their latest lover
I write all chapters by the second scene
I call the shots, dont need a fleet street team
I am a writer and Im the news
You cross me you know youre gonna lose
Ill do the story if youre dead or alive
If seconds out or if youre gonna take a dive
Slip out the news or a piece of scandal
Dont toe the line, cause nothings too hot to handle
I am the writer and Im the news
If you cross me you know youre gonna lose
Yeah youre gonna lose
[instrumental]
I am a writer and I am the news
If you cross me you know youre gonna lose
And where you are its because of me
cause overnight you know it dont come free
Ill put you up there or Ill bring you down
cause nothing moves without me in this town
I am a writer and I am the news
If you cross me you know youre gonna lose
Boy youre gonna lose I said youre gonna lose
I write the news I am the news
Got to, got to lose
Oh yeah youre gonna lose
So dont step on my blue suede shoes...

song performed by Ufo
Added by Lucian Velea
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