Like I said, you just don't get emo. If you think your effort showed Exploradora was talking trash then you're further from reality than I thought. No you didn't murder her. In emo you don't "throw" lyrics. You miss the "point" (such as it is) completely.
This is actually in my novel; she has just discovered that the older man she is in love with, has been her mother's secret lover for the last 22 years. The story is set in Cyprus, hence the references to Aphrodite. ‘Oh Aphrodite! You wicked bitch of the sea! Oh goddess of lust and desire and passion and pain, Why, you torment me so? Why, you distress me so? Who gave you right, to cut people’s hearts, Knife so rusty and rough in your clasp? Your ragged blade cuts deep! Oh terrible whore! Draws blood from the wound you dare to inflict! Drains the mortal that a ghost may exist! Who sired you? You whore of the gods? Who placed you on these ragged shores of lime? Was it your father, that old goat... that piece of slime? That hater of women and sire of liars and bastards and swine? That filled you with passion so terrible, so mad! You struck out in hate and afflicted the young? Why, oh wicked Bitch? Do you awaken the carnal in my soul? Shoot seeds of perversions and lusts to my bones? Engorged as you bugger, my heart pierced as you probe! As virtue to ashes burn, on pyres of black smoke! Why, your stinking breath blow, into my broken heart? You heartless, peerless, perfect bitch! My soul you do blemish and you disrobe, Oh Aphrodite! Who gave you right to show me love? Soak me in ardour, fervour... passions? Promises dashed against the sand, my heart has judged you and your fashions! Why not deceased and gone be, aborted torn and done be? Stillborn in watery bloody womb! Oh aged bitch of the oceans? Mother of whores and liars so coarse, they desecrate my emotions? Your death at birth should you have sought and saved me this grief and pain and sorrow! O desolate bitch upon the sea, why don’t you perish by tomorrow? You stinking whore so foul and crude, born of the frothing mania, In foam you flounder, sour and deep, no hope, no rope, no saviour! How I hate you now and how I hate you forever! How I wish you to hell and release from this agony, Aphrodite, my poutana!’
Oh boo hoo I'm going to write an emo about how CS doesn't get emo. I'm so sad for the rest of my life that I will slit my wristband all day long. Does anybody really care?
RHOD (rhyming haikus of dispair): Uncalled for slander Soils me like clothes in hamper My tissue damper Jocks are truly dumb Lifting weights till their brain numbs That's if they have one I hate PE much Get me out this hellish dump I hope I don't flunk Sadness governs me I been molested daily By society Them crackers opress Every ounce of my sweet breath Till I have none left My thin body weak Scars across my back all week The whip cuts me deep Prozac do not work It's f**king placibic dirt My shrink is a jerk My shrink really sucks He do not STFU Me thinks he on drugs F**k f**k f**k f**k f**k F**k f**k f**k f**k f**k f**k f**k My zipper is stuck I really hate prom Rather eat grass off the lawn I shall remain home Every day the same Sorrow engulfs me in flames It's starting to rain I just want to dance But Gaia aint that advanced No poses how sad My tears have no end As many repeated threads I cry till I'm dead How cruel such a loss Poor lifeless animals tossed I grieve as they rot
The majority of song lyrics would be difficult to pass of as good written or spoken word. That's why they SING them Please Register or Log in to view the hidden image! . There are exceptions to this rule however... Anyway, I didn't say all emo lyrics are rubbish, I merely suggested that some would not be considered "good art" by my former teaching artists. I used the word lecture to suggest, ineffectively, that I knew my opinion would not be appreciated. During parts of my life I have been surrounded by art snobs, and for better or worse they have rubbed off on me :shrug: .
I dare your former ugly teaching artists to battle the top of the meter When they see me ride out the speakers they take they *ss hiding under the bleachers I'm all about this game aint a motherf**ker that could f**k with me My lyrics more wicked than anything ever been written from the beginning to ending of history And that's on the moherf**king real aint a gay poet could see this raw gangsta shit Accelerated the riddim the levels I'm hitting is ripping them limits like missles You claiming that they taught you and you claiming they legit You all so garbo it don't even take nothing for me to bury all of yall in a emo pit.
*checks pulse* no i'm very much alive Are you trying to freestyle??? You know, freestyling is only cool if it's spoken. That is art I sit awe filled from.
You telling me what's cool is like a quadrapalegic telling Bruce Lee how to kick I bury your ugly face in a ditch with these rhymes that you won't never get with Sorry to break it to you but you did got so damn murdered Your pulse aint sh*t but a reflection of my lyrical reverb Your silly bullsh*t link don't mean a f**k sh*t thing I place my bets that Tara Betts get left like the rest Who try to f**k with me when it come to these raw a** sets
The winners: Tabla Riddim One Raven The loser: Lixluke a.k.a. CS I'm sorry, but Emo's generally don't talk about MCs and crackers. Emo is this annoying crap on the radio that is sort of pop-punk stuff. Lyrics like: "And the record won't stop skipping/And the lies just won't stop slipping" or "you almost always pick the best times/to drop the worst lines/you almost made me cry again this time" or "Some days I wonder/Most days, just cry" That is a sort of more typical emo. You know, fall out boy, dashboard confessional, the used, ect. Well, if we are going to talk real poetry, then I have the ultimate emo poem right here. The Edge - Sylvia plath The woman is perfected. Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment, The illusion of a Greek necessity Flows in the scrolls of her toga, Her bare Feet seem to be saying: We have come so far, it is over. Each dead child coiled, a white serpent, One at each little Pitcher of milk, now empty. She has folded Them back into her body as petals Of a rose close when the gardener Stiffens and odors bleed From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower. The moon has nothing to be sad about, Staring from her hood of bone. She is used to this sort of thing. Her blacks crackle and drag. Beat that! This is so emo that she killed herself 4 days later.