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Writers are always selling somebody out.

quote by Joan Didion
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Admiral Mike

(michael nesmith)
Peaceful music (bmi)
Lead vocal: micky dolenz
Youre selling ads you slimy toad
Dont smile at me and shake my hand
Youre killing me
Youre killing us
Because youre only
only selling ads
Youre selling ads you stupid twit
The naked lunch is on your knife
The homicides are suicides
Because youre only
only selling ads
Your copy kills
Your copy smells
Realities are crushed beneath the ads your copy sells
Go back to hell you giddy fools
There is no truth you cannot maim
He killed himself
You killed him first
Because youre only
only selling ads
Your copy kills
Your copy smells
Realities are crushed beneath the ads your copy sells
Youre selling ads you slimy toad
Dont smile at me and shake my hand
Youre killing me
Youre killing us
Because youre only
only selling ads
Because youre only only selling ads
Because youre only only selling ads
Because youre only only selling ads

song performed by Monkees
Added by Lucian Velea
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Four Main Types of Writers (personal opinion)

The Lonely Writer

Some writings tell me
This person is lonely
And is reaching out
For the touch of a friendly comment
These writers are sad, solitary,
Isolated, but good persons
And quite often very good writers

The needy juvenile writer

Some writings contain words
Or language meant to shock
And to offend.
These writers are lonely also
But in a different way.
These writers are simply saying
Like a little child
“hey! I exist! Someone better
Acknowledge me! ”
These writers can often write well
But usually don’t, can’t, or choose not to

The Spite Writer

This writer can be of either gender
But seems to be in a female majority
They’ve been spurned or rejected
Two-timed or lied to.
And they are going to vent their ire
In the most public way they can.
These writers can also be very good writers
But too often let their anger get in the way.

The Religious Writer

These writers show people passionate
And zealously devoted to singing the praises
Of the Lord and goodness and charity.
They’re probably austere, honest people
Who almost always write very well.
For the most part these writers seem
To want to spread the word and
At the same time tend to be rather singular
In the subject matter of their writings,
Rarely attempting other genres.

poem by David Whalen
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Selling My Soul

Man of madness, who lives in my head
Keeping me awake at night, he sits on my bed
He drives me crazy, he wont go away
Playing his game every night and every day
Yeah
My mind feels heavy, my body feels weak
Suicidal thoughts crying out for some sleep
Impending doom is what Im about
Think Im going out without a shadow of doubt
I search for serenity yeah,
Is it really out there?
I dont read the holy books cause
They take me no where
I cant hold on yes Im losing control
Im paying the price now for
Selling my soul, selling my soul
I search for serenity, yeah
Is it really out there?
I dont read the holy books cause
They take me no where
I cant hold on yes Im losing control
Im paying the price now for
Selling my soul, selling my soul
Yeah, for selling my soul
Yeah, selling my soul
Yeah, for selling my soul

song performed by Black Sabbath
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I Wont Buy It!

if you're selling salvation
for a one time donation...
i wont buy it!
if you're selling comfort
at the expense of the poor...
i wont buy it!
if you're selling protection
at the cost of individual rights...
i wont buy it!
if you're selling love
bought with diamonds and drugs...
i wont buy it!
if you're selling truth,
but your version of truth...
i wont buy it!
if you're selling today
at the final cost of tomorrow...
i wont buy it!
if you're selling freedom
fed by guns and invasions,
i wont buy it!

get it through your head...
i wont buy it!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Most Writers

Most writers 'twould seem have moments of self doubt
But they never go short of things to write about
And to become a top writer of one a big ask
And to succeed as a writer for many seems too daunting a task.

Most writers do not write for wealth or for fame
And despite lack of success they pen on just the same
For every one hundred thousand writers perhaps one writing millionaire
Amongst the ranks of the wealthy the writers are rare.

Few writers can hope for to scale success height
For the love of writing they only do write
Few writers get published and fewer know of success
But in their writings on paper their thoughts they express.

Most writers will never know wealth and renown
And they are not even well known in their own Hometown
They never will be known beyond their home shore
They write for the love of it and little more.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Writer's Drought

You've heard of a thing called writer's block and you've heard of writer's drought
But writers are never short of things on which they can write about
It's just at times their inspiration well does seem to run dry
And they cannot seem to pen a line though hard enough they try.

The writers drought it causes writers moments of self doubt
Till the words that seem locked in them eventually flow out
Through their pens to their notebooks their dry spells do not last
And on time lost out on penning words they seem to catch up fast.

Some writers in their writing drought cannot seem to feel inspired
To write even a single line they feel mentally tired
But when fresh inspiration comes to them much better stuff they do write
And feeling re-invigorated they sit and pen all night.

Most writers you will talk to of writers drought can tell
When there is no inspiration in their inspiration well
But when inspiration returns to them and their creative juices flow
They become much better writers and in self confidence grow.

poem by Francis Duggan
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James & The Cold Gun

James, come on home.
Youve been gone too long, baby.
We cant let our hero
Die alone.
We miss you day and night.
You left town to live by the rifle.
You left us to fight,
But it just aint right to take away the light.
Remember genie from the casino?
Shes still a-waiting in that big brass bed.
The boys from your gang are knocking whisky back,
til they get out of hand and wish they were dead.
Theyre only lonely for the life that they led
With their old friend.
Ooh, james, are you selling your soul to a cold gun?
Selling your soul to a
Ooh, james, are you selling your soul to a cold gun?
Where lies your heart?
Its not there in the buckskin, baby.
Its not there in the gin
That makes you laugh long and loud.
Youre a coward, james.
Youre running away from humanity.
Youre running away from reality.
It wont be funny when they rat-a-tat-tat you down.
Remember genie from the casino?
Shes still a-waiting in that big brass bed.
The boys from your gang are knocking whisky back,
til they get out of hand and wish they were dead.
Theyre only lonely for the life that they led
With their old friend.
Ooh, james, are you selling your soul to a cold gun?
Selling your soul to a
Ooh, james, are you selling your soul to a cold gun?

song performed by Kate Bush
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Everybodys Selling Something

More 4/4s in the neighborhood
Banging on the same guitar
Dreaming of living in hollywood
Puffing on a big cigar
Prima ballerina in a magazine
Call her on the telephone
Tell her that youre sending up a limousine
She say: I dont know...
I know where to go!
Now 4/4s in a different mood
Thinks hes gonna change the world
Making all the money that some others should
Guess its cause we dont deserve
Meet a lot of people in a magazine
Tell you where not to go
Tell you that Im living out a fantasy
You say: you dont know
They play me on the radio
You gotta walk before you crawl
Remember everybodys selling something
You gotta talk before you know
Remember everybodys selling something
Theres like a racket on the ball
Remember everybody wants attention
You gotta rock before you roll
Remember everybodys selling something
Sell me something
Sell me something
Sell me something
Now!
Now 4/4s into mother earth
Hurry up and wait t.v.
Funny how your lifell take a different turn
And how you get to dance for free
See a lot of freedom in your magazine?
Does it tell you what you want to know?
Tell you once and maybe twice and maybe three times
Thats all right!
Were coming out in stereo!!!
You gotta walk before you crawl
Remember everybodys selling something
You gotta talk before you know
Remember everybodys selling something
Theres like a racket on the ball
Remember everybody wants attention
You gotta rock before you roll
Remember everybodys selling something
Sell me something
Sell me something
Sell me something

[...] Read more

song performed by Men Without Hats
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Somebody's Got To Make A Payment Back

Advances given,
Aren't given to forgive.
Somebody's got to make a payment back,
If this is part of a contract.

Advances given,
Aren't given to forgive.
Somebody's got to make a payment back,
If this is part of a contract.

Selling one's soul to obtain an image.
Somebody's got to make a payment back.
Selling one's soul to be adored.
Somebody's got to make a payment back.
Selling pieces of a heart will eliminate its beating.
With a defeating of a tortured soul.
And once that's sold the mind goes.

Advances given aren't given to forgive.
Somebody's got to make a payment back.
Advances given aren't given to forgive.
Somebody's got to make a payment back.

Selling one's soul to be adored.
Somebody's got to make a payment back.
Selling pieces of a heart will eliminate its beating.
With a defeating of a tortured soul.
And once that's sold the mind goes.

Advances given aren't given to forgive.
Somebody's got to make a payment back.
Advances given aren't given to forgive.
Somebody's got to make a payment back.

Advances given,
Aren't given to forgive.
Somebody's got to make a payment back,
If this is part of a contract.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Caricatures

There are writers great and writers small
And writers on the spree;
And writers short and writers tall,
And bards of low degree.

There are artists small and artist great,
With lines both bold and free –
It takes a Low to illustrate
Us bards of low degree.

poem by Henry Lawson
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The Truth can Hurt

The truth can hurt

Some writers write infrequently
and others write prolifically.
What matters is the quality
much more so than the quantity.

Good writers by their words display
their thoughts in a coherent way
Describing things they have observed
and garner praise that’s well deserved.

But some think anything will do
and they pay no attention to
the rules successful writers use
they will not learn: point blank refuse

to accept well meant critique.
They much prefer dishonest praise
from so called friends afraid
to speak the simple truth lest they dismay

their friend by speaking honestly.
So naturally they take offence
when other people criticise
that which seems perfect in their eyes.

True writers take this in their stride
they know their work is not perfect.
But what they know is they have tried
and that is all you can expect.

New writers lack experience
but everyone must start some where.
The wise ones do not take offence
when other people show they care

enough to offer some advice.
Because they can remember when
they too were just a new novice
to painting pictures with their pen.
27 feb 08

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Essay on Psychiatrists

I. Invocation

It‘s crazy to think one could describe them—
Calling on reason, fantasy, memory, eves and ears—
As though they were all alike any more

Than sweeps, opticians, poets or masseurs.
Moreover, they are for more than one reason
Difficult to speak of seriously and freely,

And I have never (even this is difficult to say
Plainly, without foolishness or irony)
Consulted one for professional help, though it happens

Many or most of my friends have—and that,
Perhaps, is why it seems urgent to try to speak
Sensibly about them, about the psychiatrists.

II. Some Terms

“Shrink” is a misnomer. The religious
Analogy is all wrong, too, and the old,
Half-forgotten jokes about Viennese accents

And beards hardly apply to the good-looking woman
In boots and a knit dress, or the man
Seen buying the Sunday Times in mutton-chop

Whiskers and expensive running shoes.
In a way I suspect that even the terms “doctor”
And “therapist” are misnomers; the patient

Is not necessarily “sick.” And one assumes
That no small part of the psychiatrist’s
Role is just that: to point out misnomers.

III. Proposition

These are the first citizens of contingency.
Far from the doctrinaire past of the old ones,
They think in their prudent meditations

Not about ecstasy (the soul leaving the body)
Nor enthusiasm (the god entering one’s person)
Nor even about sanity (which means

Health, an impossible perfection)
But ponder instead relative truth and the warm

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Pinsky
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An Essay On The Different Stiles Of Poetry

To Henry, Lord Viscount Bolingbroke.

I hate the Vulgar with untuneful Mind,
Hearts uninspir'd, and Senses unrefin'd.
Hence ye Prophane, I raise the sounding String,
And Bolingbroke descends to hear me sing.

When Greece cou'd Truth in Mystick Fable shroud,
And with Delight instruct the list'ning Crowd,
An ancient Poet (Time has lost his Name)
Deliver'd Strains on Verse to future Fame.
Still as he sung he touch'd the trembling Lyre,
And felt the Notes a rising Warmth inspire.
Ye sweet'ning Graces in the Musick Throng,
Assist my Genius, and retrieve the Song
From dark Oblivion. See, my Genius goes
To call it forth. 'Twas thus the Poem rose.

Wit is the Muses Horse, and bears on high
The daring Rider to the Muses Sky:
Who, while his strength to mount aloft he tries,
By Regions varying in their Nature, flies.

At first he riseth o'er a Land of Toil,
A barren, hard, and undeserving Soil,
Where only Weeds from heavy Labour grow,
Which yet the Nation prune, and keep for show.
Where Couplets jingling on their Accent run,
Whose point of Epigram is sunk to Pun.
Where Wings by Fancy never feather'd fly,
Where Lines by measure form'd in Hatchets lie;
Where Altars stand, erected Porches gape,
And Sense is cramp'd while Words are par'd to shape;
Where mean Acrosticks labour'd in a Frame,
On scatter'd Letters raise a painful Scheme;
And by Confinement in their Work controul
The great Enlargings of the boundless Soul.
Where if a Warriour's elevated Fire
Wou'd all the brightest Strokes of Verse require,
Then streight in Anagram a wretched Crew
Will pay their undeserving Praises too;
While on the rack his poor disjointed Name
Must tell its Master's Character to Fame.
And (if my Fire and Fears aright presage)
The lab'ring Writers of a future Age
Shall clear new ground, and Grotts and Caves repair,
To civilize the babbling Ecchoes there.
Then while a Lover treads a lonely Walk,
His Voice shall with its own Reflection talk,

[...] Read more

poem by Thomas Parnell
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Drowning Man

(duran duran)
Hes sinking faster than a drowning man
Hell grab a hold of anyone he can
Gun in his poket and a heart of ham
Uncle sam...
Hes dying faster than a rabid dog
Infect us all now hes losing blood
Nose for trouble and a soul of rock
Smokeys man...
Dont drag me down
I dont wanna drown
Your going down
(hay) na na na na na na na na
Theres not much flesh
Just skin and bone
Cheeks sunk deep
Eyes popping wide
Dont put out a hand to help him
This drowning man will bite it right off
Right off , right off , right off..
(chorus)
Hes selling faster than a magazine
Infect us all with his tv screen
Hes selling faster than a magazine
Infect us all with his tv screen
Hes selling faster than a magazine
Infect us all with his tv screen
Hes selling faster than a magazine
Infect us all with his tv screen
(chorus) (chorus)

song performed by Duran Duran
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I Cant Dance

Hot sun beating down
Burning my feet just walking around.
Hot sun making me sweat
gators getting close, hasnt got me yet
I cant dance, I cant talk.
Only thing about me is the way I walk.
I cant dance, I cant sing
Im just standing here selling everything.
Blue jeans sitting on the beach,
Her dogs talking to me, but shes out of reach.
Shes got a body under that shirt,
But all she wants to do is rub my face in the dirt.
Cos, I cant dance, I cant talk.
Only thing about me is the way I walk.
I cant dance, I cant sing
Im just standing here selling.
Oh and checking everything is in place,
You never know whos looking on.
Young punk spilling beer on my shoes,
Fat guys talking to me trying to steal my blues.
Thick smoke, see her smiling through.
I never thought so much could happen just shooting pool.
But I cant dance, I cant talk.
The only thing about me is the way that I walk.
I cant dance, I cant sing
Im just standing here selling
Oh and checking everything is in place
You never know whos looking on
A perfect body with a perfect face - uh-huh.
No, I cant dance, I cant talk.
The only thing about me is the way I walk.
No, I cant dance, I cant sing
Im just standing here selling everything.
But I can walk.
No I cant dance.
No no no I cant dance
No I said I cant sing.
But I can walk.

song performed by Genesis
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As Time Goes By

In our town there were many small shops, one selling
buttons the other socks; and a hardware store should
you need a hammer and nails to hang up a picture of
your mother -in- law, in the living room.

There was also a shop selling scarves, another selling
ladies hats, and a third one, quite posh, selling suits and
ties. I mustn’t forget the shoe shop, leather footwear
black or brown and white tennis shoes.

In our street of trade most shops have shut, those still
open are run by the Orientals where you can buy all
you need for a very small price. If your shoes wear out,
no point going to the old cobbler, buy Chinese instead.

Red lanterns sway in the fiscal breeze of decline where
wistfulness has no price tag. But you must remember
this, a shop is just a shop, yet, for us sentimental fools,
are remembered as a sweet memory of times gone by,

poem by Oskar Hansen
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02-04-2012 Brother I give you my answer for Black People African Sahara it mesmerizes the wise largest desert it is asked of we What is Africa is to me 3.3 million miles of grea

Brother I give you my answer
for Black People

African Sahara
it mesmerizes the wise
largest desert
it is asked of we
What is Africa is to me
3.3 million miles
of great desert
once a forest
once a great sea
once an empty hole
in space just waiting
to be that it can
birth the blackness
of who my mothers be
3.3 millions
you can not see it all
Trans Saharan trade
is but a child
weather selling slaves
or selling salt
and always
brought and sold
the black man's art, gold
the paintings
was still for the walls
to surround us
a representation of the thing
that be, the God that
rose Africa from the sea
man got his
walking feet
on Africa's soil
Africa Moors
salt caravans
Africa the salt
of the land
what more did Africa
give to man
gold first mimed
found its glow
in the hands of
a black child
oldest gold jewelry
in Queen Zer's tomb
being as old as this
there is nothing
that we can not do

[...] Read more

poem by David E. Patton
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A goal in sight

One two or go on making it to eight hundred
The poems may go on piling without any end
There is definite goal or aim in sight
You might attain it or would like to continue the fight

'You are good man but bad poet'
I read message which cautioned me not to write
This is not right place for you to reflect the views
I too felt it needed constant reviews

It has become craze among writers
They try to play easy and not prove as good fighters
They may approach readers to view their articles
They also try to limit themselves in small circle

'You read my article and I shall read yours'
This may please each other to have some favors
The quality may limit to one particular leave
The writers may not have good chance to excel

The flaws or drawbacks may not be pointed to him at all
It may be crushed under friendly observation or call
Why at all we need to approach viewers to comment?
Is there no other option to approach them for a moment?

Many comment sarcastically as if they are very good expert
The writer' only crime is request for support
This is not essentially to find any favor at the outset
It is only aimed at getting foot hold to set

Some writers get alienated over the honest remark
They want favorable remarks when try to venture or embark
This is not correct approach as it may not allow their real talents to surface
It may block the creativity and finally they enter in mad race

Any human being may not be pleased with the criticism
It hurts their ego and they take it affront to individualism
The relation has to be kept at one side and profession on other
Both should not be mixed and it should not concern or bother

The writing skill is God's gift and may come out as creation
To some it may prove dine piece and to others only recreation
Everybody has different perception and right to evaluate
The writers weight pro and con and the calculate

It is always nice to find place with some recognition
Your pen may be contributing more with ammunition
They may embark up on new themes and excel
Everything may then move on sound footing to fare well

[...] Read more

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Writers and Poets

Here I sit
At a desk dimly lit.
Holding an unsharpened pencil
Over a piece of old, faded paper,
In my mind lingers a vague intention
Within the unformed idea
Of somehow writing something.
With no clear idea, theme or plan.
Only the restless desire to write.

It's raining. Again.
It seems to rain often.
Not the weather.
Life.
Interior drops fall,
Like flower pedals sacrificed.
Beautys death, the ransom price.
My desire lives in poetic rhythms,
Not in serious writers cadences.
I am not a writer.
- I hope to be a poet-
There is a difference? one may ask;
Oh yes, I believe so.
I'll attempt to express why.
In poetry words flow,
Like living waters.
In writing ideas are built within words.
The writer builds something,
Like a dam, to hold and control the way of the water,
To cause it to go somewhere precisely.
Writers form canals to move readers
To certain places.
Poets open up the dark clouds over life
Pouring out necessary wonders onto human souls;
Thirst quenching beauties that all
-in one way or another-
Are in great need of.
Writers, thankfully, take people
To places where they are able
To realize their own thirst.
Poets give them the drink.
The taste towards fulfilling life's true longings.

Writers and poets together
Make the dark a bit brighter,
The waters a bit more navagatible,
The way a bit clearer,
And the thirst of life
A bit more quenchable.

poem by Smoky Hoss
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A Well Crafted Word

Why am I so philosophical, a philosopher a long time ago once wrote.
The song writer, script writer, poet and novelist like to use a great quote.
Some poems are written with a catchy rhyme and a theme.
A well crafted word can help and be a great writers dream.
Everyone knows that the pen is mightier than the sword.
A well crafted word can give the reader great reward.
'A metaphor is just like a simile'; An unknown author once quoted.
It's true about all writers I know, they all hate their words being misquoted.
To writers one and all, a well crafted word is always a must to write down.
Just remember this about all writers, they can make great use of a pronoun.

poem by Nichole Kaci McKnight
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