175 Deep Lyrics, write to rock,pop,blues,ballads

[JHeavern]

175 Lyrics of (mostly) deep observational introspection. will write to rock, pop, ballads.

A TASTE :

© 2018 John Heavern
S-7/27/12, Anything For A Pretty Face

Ch) I'll do anything for a pretty face,
no work of art can take their place.
To see them smile can touch a dial
converting men to juveniles.
I'll do anything for their attention,
even things I shouldn't mention.

I would go to prom with Jack the Ripper,
feed piranha from my zipper.
Use my toaster in the tub,
give a charging bull a snub.
Anything I think or dream
I don´t believe is too extreme.

Ch) I'll do anything for a pretty face,
no work of art can take their place.
To see them smile can touch a dial
converting men to juveniles.
I'll do anything for their affections,
anything, but ask directions.

I would volunteer to climb the Rockies
with a pair of shrunken jockeys,
rock the most unsteady boat,
ballroom dance with billygoats.
Doesn't matter what I do,
they fill my heart with gratitude.

Br) I'll be ready when they call,
prepared to run or crawl.
At work and play they’d make my day,
at night we’d have a ball.
Anything for a pretty face,
anything conceived at all.

I would teach an elephant to prance,
stick a beehive down my pants.
Slam my finger in a door,
cane my ass in Singapore.
Emphatically I plead my case,
my everything for a pretty face.

© 2018 John Heavern
S-1/27/13, Lyrical Spheres

I’m never quite sure what to do
with the moments in time that I write.
Deficient in finding a clue
to announce them profound or too trite.
Limitations affecting my sight.

Ch) Too simple for poetry, too silent for song,
not really sure where my passion belongs.
Compiling and filing as days drift along,
frames for my visions are quietly drawn.
Lyrical spheres, inspired frontiers,
creations awaiting a musical dawn.

No music to fill in the lines
around the ideas composed,
I'm bound to feel somewhat confined
in the silent approach to my prose.
I need musical notes to enclose.

Ch) Too simple for poetry, too silent for song,
not really sure where my passion belongs.
Compiling and filing as days drift along,
frames for my visions are quietly drawn.
Lyrical spheres, inspired frontiers,
creations awaiting a musical dawn.

Br)     At a loss for the music I crave,
I fear I'm a lyrical slave.
The meter and rhyme keeping verses in time
to the noteless emotions I save.
I need sound to surround me in waves.

Ch) Too simple for poetry, too silent for song,
not really sure where my passion belongs.
Compiling and filing as days drift along,
frames for my visions are quietly drawn.
Lyrical spheres, inspired frontiers,
creations awaiting a musical dawn.

© 2018 John Heavern
S-7/12/12, As I Sit And Stare

People think I'm acting lazy, almost comatose or crazy.
Still as stone and out alone, musing in my comfort zone. 
Peering out a greater distance, passing tangible existence.
Fantasy is in the air, whispering to sit and stare.

Ch) I Stare beyond mistakes I've made,
stare between the common ground.
Stare at dues already paid,
stare at space, write it down.
As I sit and stare...
I'm not even there.

Aggravations quickly fading, hidden paradise pervading.
Mystic windows open bright, shining scenes in prism light.
Cast aside all sense of measure, seeking out my hidden treasure.
Vast horizons open wide, apparitions amplified.

  Ch) I Stare beyond mistakes I've made,
stare between the common ground.
Stare at dues already paid,
stare at space, write it down.
As I sit and stare...
I'm not even there.

Swimming in surreal surroundings, inspiration's pulse is pounding.
Circulation flowing back, filling in creative cracks.
Far beyond the realm of tension, floating into fourth dimension.
Phasing into phantom scenes, revelation intervenes.
             
Ch) I Stare beyond mistakes I've made,
stare between the common ground.
Stare at dues already paid,
stare at space, write it down.
As I sit and stare...
I'm not even there.

© 2018 John Heavern
S-7/14/18, Pride

The consequential impetus
that overcomes a modest man
invites indulgence to assist
as vanity gets out of hand.
A superficial interest plan.

Ch1) It’s stubborn, it’s cruel, the folly of fools,
a game of the mind with irrational rules.
At times it is bursting, bruised or decides
the best or the worst things in whom it resides.
Fit to be tied: decisions of pride.

A self-indulgent inner child
of disproportionality
is prone to go a little wild
when prompted by reality.
A proud perceptibility.

Br) It’s good in small doses when aptly applied,
just be on your toes with that slippery pride.
No rest for the weary, leave nothing to hide,
presumptuous theories flaunt pillars of pride.

Ch2) A stumble, a fall, the bait for a brawl,
an awkward attempt to make sense of it all.
Impassioned behavior is showing a side
that sinner and savior uniquely divide.
Split kinda’ wide on matters of pride.

Relationships are seldom free,
a bumpy ride that can exhaust
purveyors of myopic dreams
who stand alone at any cost.
An egocentric line is crossed.

Ch3) A weapon, a brace, a glow on a face,
emotional puzzle not easy to place.
Confidence grows in a singular tide
as emptiness flows into feelings denied.
Loneliness cried in puddles of pride.


© 2018 John Heavern
S-9/15/18, War

Travails throughout our history
have fostered few apologies.
The glories told in days of old
recorded into victory.
No tales availed fatalities.

Br) Never sleeping, death is creeping, quietly surrounding
belligerents and innocents as body counts are mounting.
Flying flesh and bullets mesh with screams of agony
as cannons rage and tanks engage appraised artillery.

Ch) Just a typical war of attrition,
dressed in abhorred, impossible missions.
Presage precedes hide-and-seeking attacks;
playing for keeps doesn’t sleep or relax.
Many exude of the glories in store
but few truly view hell as dwelling in war.

The perpetrators of remorse
have seldom led a battle force,
their courage told but not displayed
as casualties accumulate.
A leader just initiates.

Ch) Just a typical war of attrition,
dressed in abhorred, impossible missions.
Presage precedes hide-and-seeking attacks;
playing for keeps doesn’t sleep or relax.
Many exude of the glories in store
but few truly view hell as dwelling in war.

Br2) Smoke and thunder soaking under nerves already shaking
aging boys with deadly toys illusion's overtaking.
Trudging dreams through bloody streams, the future of survival
looks forward to pernicious views of war's inborn revival.

Ch) Just a typical war of attrition,
dressed in abhorred, impossible missions.
Presage precedes hide-and-seeking attacks;
playing for keeps doesn’t sleep or relax.
Many exude of the glories in store
but few truly view hell as dwelling in war.


© 2018 John Heavern
S-8/30/18, Mortality

Delivered to a world filled with many choices,
Influences wrapped around the sound of many voices.
A natural awareness of a life obliged to end
is not designed to scare us, just prepare us 'round the bend.

Ch) It grows, it breathes, demanding our needs,
invested in prospects of deadliest deeds.
Reactions can test a human mentality
when time can't arrest the grip of mortality.

An unexpressive ghost coldly designating
unsuspecting hosts who try denying what's awaiting.
It lurks among the shadows, with no apologies
and ends the chase with fate embraced beside mortality.

Ch) It grows, it breathes, demanding our needs,
invested in prospects of deadliest deeds.
Reactions can test a human mentality
when time can't arrest the grip of mortality.

Br) It places time on everything,
from blades of grass to galaxies.
We procreate, continuing
the chain of our fatality.
No matter what the future brings,
we can't escape mortality.

Ch) It grows, it breathes, demanding our needs,
invested in prospects of deadliest deeds.
Reactions can test a human mentality
when time can't arrest the grip of mortality.

© 2018 John Heavern
S-9/8/18, Bones

It's been a wearisome, wonderful life,
been kind of interesting earning my stripes.
As I wander alone down the path of unknown,
a shroud of reality shadows my bones.

Ch1) No sense in wading in pools of denial,
time's dissipating near the end of the aisle.
Rattle my bones while I spend what I make,
giving my tolerance all it can take.

There's still enough light to relish my flight,
seize opportunity when it's in sight.
I was never devoid of a pleasure enjoyed,
my bones of delight are a treasure employed.

Ch2) I hope when I get to the checkout, I find
my bones turned to dust from my fun in the grind.
Don't plan on having too much to retrieve
except for the dusting of memories I leave.

Br) Bones fighting gravity all of our lives,
aching and breaking, shaking inside.
People turn blue when there's nothing to do
throw them a bone life has shown onto you.

Ch3) Bones can get buried by dogs of my greed,
unkindness implanting nefarious deeds.
Better to share all the fortunate fare,
bones left to pick never go anywhere.