Rebel angel

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Rebel angel fly tonight
on pills & gasoline
lonely motel prisons
roads & bars

taste the lie
believe yourself 
and fly with broken wings 
chase the night
on highways after dark

children pack the empty boxes
mama falls asleep
dogs are barking loud
and daddy’s gone

tears are filling up a child
he never gets to weep
like busted sprinklers
dryin’ up the lawn 

outlaw keep the bible
let it rival all your dreams
love it all your life
and where you roam

tuck it deep inside your heart
don’t cry in faded jeans
don’t die on lonely hiway’s
far from home ©

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चित्रकारको- The Artist

-Questlove ©2014 Artist : Edward McMillan

-Questlove ©2014
Artist : Edward McMillan

To be an artist. To create an audible or visual mark upon this world that expresses who we are. Art is sacred because it proves the existence of a God given soul. It signifies the dark roads or lost highways we’ve walked. Every voice behind a microphone and each time an artist picks up a brush , the silent hallways and empty canvases come alive with poetry that flows straight from the artist’s soul. It tells us how they feel and who they are. All that is needed is a starting point. With that, they leave their mark on this world forever. Without that starting point, the many songs of yesterday, the Mona Lisa would only exist within the souls of mortal men. Men with names easily forgotten by the hands of time. A man becomes an artist when his soul meets his canvass. Much like art, who we are to this world is a mixture of two components: what we have and what we do with it. 

Dear Jesus,
I ask that you shelter me from blindness
bless me with continual vision
let me know my own reflection
as a work of your art
please guide my actions in a way
that allows me to be your perpetual mark
In me, let the lost find proof of your work

upon this canvass of life
let my intentions paint your glory
guide my voice to a song of love
Lord, bless me with the courage
to be an exhibition of your mastery
for I care not if this world forgets my name
so long as I help them to remember yours.

                       Amen ©                                                

 

 

I can barely hear his cry

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Hear that lonely guitar tune
it sounds so low tonight
that music man he sings so low
I can barely hear his cry

I’ve never known a sadder sound
than the one I hear tonight
like moon light on a newborn wound
in a child too young to cry

have you ever seen an empty room
where love forgets to shine
that guitar man is leaving soon
I can hear him say goodbye

the gentle weeping lonesome gloom
cuts through a moonlit night
and as he plays his final tune
I can barely hear his cry ©

Independence Day

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A long long time ago
on a July Indiana night
while the guitars played
the children made
the bottle rockets fill the sky

I was old enough to walk alone
between the songs and rows of corn
and make believing we were soldiers
roman candles shined so bright
and I saw the tears in Geno’s eyes

while the superheroes played the music
children loved to light the fuses
sending sparks that left the dark
and
lit the fires of our eyes
I smelled gun powder and the booze
 
the spirits Uncle Gino used
as clouds that hid a soldiers truth
of watching some too young to die
forgetting where he was
as bottle rockets filled the sky

My Uncle Gino played songs on his guitar
for all the boys who travelled far
beside him to a place called Hanoi
rockets blasted all around
and in his tunes he always paid
a tribute to the boys that gave
their lives like superheroes walking
home from just another day
where fire left the light of youthful eyes
of superheroes on the ground
like bottle rockets in the sky ©


  
    

Streets never seem to know her name

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You know the lonely kind
one who pretends to find
smiles in a place that looks so sad
she walks the darkest streets
for everyone she meets
why does she pay to hurt so bad

Wonder why she flies
thunder should tell the wise
one heart is burning by the flame
she finds when she falls
no one will hear her call
streets never seem to know her name

In every guy she meets
out in the city streets
why does she look for what she’s had
seems just a mystery
throughout her history
finding her good in someone bad

Wonder why she flies
thunder should tell the wise
one heart is burning by the flame
she finds when she falls
no one will hear her call
streets never seem to know her name

When the thunder is passin’ her by
and the fire quits burning
she can tell you
it never dies

Wonder why she flies
thunder should tell the wise
one heart is burning by the flame
she finds when she falls
no one will hear her call
streets never seem to know her name
©

This warm and pretty day

SAMSUNG

Well I’m out here
I could tell you
bout a thousand from my home
I could tell you I’ve been troubled
and I’m out here on my own
where the miles keep
the bottles empty
and the worry washed away
but the truth is
what’s the use when
I’m lookin’ out on
a pretty day

and the money
ain’t what it used to
be and many
are feelin’ down
and our dreams are
down the tubes while
there isn’t anyone around
I could tell you
bout the nights
without the lights
just lie awake
but the truth is
what’s the use when
the Lord has made us
a pretty day

I’ll pretend I’m goin’ fishin’
instead of wishin’ I was gone
and my friends you’re always welcome
to pack a bag and come along
we could talk about
the good times
set beside me
wash away
with a cold one
in the sunshine
of this warm and pretty day ©

For the ones holdin’ on

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It’s bound to get better
for the ones holdin’ on
but I’ll never forget
all the ones dead and gone
on the road with a letter
folded up in my jeans
tellin’ me it gets better
on the roads yet to be

and it’s bound to get better
there’s a God up above
askin’ me when’s the time
I’ll start showin’ more love
on the road with a letter
tellin’ me to remember
that its bound to get better
for the ones holdin’ on

and it’s bound to get better
for the ones holdin’ on
to the folded up letters
with
 the words of a song
and our voices together
we can sing it forever
and it’s bound to get better
for the ones holdin’ on©