At the top of our civilization the worthless image of our creation 
still raises which rotten the flesh and soul of our people
poverty, hunger and death are the gods of this era, 
the tempestuous fall of the species

and amidst all this agony, black hearted politicians and religion followers 
feed on people wounds and like maggots they eat the pus from their eyes

And in time they'll be re-borne like flies
from their eyes sockets (and) they will fly expanding
their corruption and perversion everywhere with their fake promises destroying everything that their undeserving claws touch

(but) this is the awakening 
of the minds era, 
where our shouts will join in a thunderous 
blow to tyranny of the elite

Worthless

"Atlantis" is my submerged city.

This song was born from a year of silence, mourning and scars. It is dedicated to my father death one year ago, my first guide, my first sound. As a child, I watched him listen to The Shadows, immersed in a world that I didn't understand then, but that keeps me alive today.

The artwork represents that child — me — suspended between absence and memory. The shadows of the guitars are the remains of what has been, yet they still vibrate, as if somewhere they were still playing for him.

"Atlantis" is not just a song: it is my way of going down into the depths, among the ruins, and bringing what remains to the surface.

💿 Produced by EileenNoise.
Singer and guitar Sophie Ellison

You can hear other works with her here;)
https://soundcloud.com/zipboy83/sets/grunge-vocals-by-sophie
🎸 In memory of those who taught me to listen to the silence between the notes.

Check my other works with that sound
soundcloud.com/zipboy83/sets/collaboration-with-laura-maren

[Verse]
Shadows fade like broken glass
In the ruins of my past
Crawling out from dirt and stone
Found a place to call my own

[Chorus]
Burn me down I’ll rise again
From the ashes of my sin
Chains are gone the weight is light
Born again in endless fight

[Verse 2]
Bruised and battered torn apart
Every scar a piece of art
Shattered dreams they light the way
Through the dark to find the day

[Chorus]
Burn me down I’ll rise again
From the ashes of my sin
Chains are gone the weight is light
Born again in endless fight

[Bridge]
Smoke still lingers in the air
But I breathe without a care
Let the embers guide my hand
Building castles in the sand

[Chorus]
Burn me down I’ll rise again
From the ashes of my sin
Chains are gone the weight is light
Born again in endless fight

Atlantis

This song was composed in memory of my little girl, who passed away a year ago. It's a tribute filled with love and nostalgia, a musical offering that seeks to embrace her memory. The melody is built on soft melodic pianos and enveloping guitars, accompanied by harmonious synthesizers that create an ethereal atmosphere. The sounds of the sea and the songs of sirens emerge like echoes of the soul, representing a bridge between this world and hers. Each note is a caress, each chord a tear turned into light. It's a farewell that refuses to relent, a whisper to heaven that says, "You'll always be with me."
Song Video:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V7v-S7oHq6I

Fly Angel Chloe

Rock song written, arranged, produced by JH
John Hardman - Vocals, guitars, keyboards
(c)(p) Swamp Music UK & Swamp Records UK for all territories

Could've Been Better - John Hardman

The first song was for themselves.
A scream into the void.

But the void listens.

Not just students.
Not just academics.
But strangers with usernames like BluePrinter47 and QuietTomCat12.

Now it’s not just about venting.
It’s about telling their stories.

They meet in the seminar room at 7 p.m.
There’s a soft sweetness in the air, like a freshly baked cookie vanished just moments ago.

Kate clears the whiteboard.
“Let’s write one for the people we’ve lost.”

Julian looks up. “You mean… who left academia?”
Kate nods.

Theo grins. “Oh. We’re doing a murder ballad.”

Ava grabs a marker and starts writing.

One line’s about failed exams.
Another’s about rejections—again and again.
Someone adds a verse for the colleague who finally makes it…
then loses everything overnight.

They never say names.
Everyone has someone in mind.

It starts as a joke.
It ends in a silence no one wants to break.

This is Test 2.

A song for everyone who doesn’t get to finish the track—
but still echoes in the melody.

Song: Ten Little Scholars

Ten little students applied to grad schools
One didn't ace his exams, and then there were nine

Nine little students, their packets prepared
One's references faltered, and then there were eight

Eight little graduate students, their studies like forts
One failed her comps badly, and then there were seven

Seven little graduate students sought ideas that inspire
One found no thesis topic, and then there were six

Six little graduate students did their research
One was tempted by big money, and then there were five

Five little graduate students went on the job market
One got zero flyouts, and then there were four

Four little assistant professors submitted their papers
One got only rejections, and then there were three

Three little assistant professors went up for tenure
One was voted down, and then there were two

Two little associate professors applied for promotions
One had no grant funding, and then there was one

One little professor left all alone
He went and got himself canceled, and then there were none

Test 2: Do You Remember the Ones We Lost? (Ten Little Scholars)

Some days, everything works.

The mics behave.
The ideas sync.
The printer doesn’t jam.

Someone starts a line,
someone else finishes it.

Theo plays one chord
and Ava knows exactly what beat to lay down.
Kate hums a melody
Julian already has in his hands.

The songs don’t get written.
They arrive.

No doubt.
No deadlines.
Just movement.
Just spark.
Just music pouring through minds
that are, finally, ready.

Not grasping.
Not grinding.

Just—
ready.

Like a pen on a clean page.
Like breath before a leap.

They are the vessel, the fire, the flame—
and every verse lights clean.

It’s the feeling just before the curtain rises.
Just before the dream remembers it’s a dream.

This is Test 8.
And they are ready.

...so very ready.

Song: Ready

Your pens are sharpened, your desk so clean
Your office quiet, a creative sheen
Your notes are here, your goals are near
With everything in place, there's nothing to fear

Get ready! Get ready!
You're ready! You're ready!
You're absolutely ready!
To create something big
To fulfill your dreams

The stage is yours, the pen in hand
It's time to play, to make your stand
With every step, you pave your way
Into a brighter, bolder day

Get ready! Get ready!
You're ready! You're ready!
You're absolutely ready!
To create something big
To fulfill your dreams

The time is now, the world is vast
The future's bright, let go of the past
You're the captain of your fate
With every dream, you create

Get ready! Get ready!
You're ready! You're ready!
You're absolutely ready!
To create something big
To fulfill your dreams

You're ready now, to light the spark
To chase the dreams, and make your mark
With dreams in hand, hope in sight
You're ready now, to take the flight

----

That is the last note they remember writing.

The next one...
is already waiting.

This concludes Act I.

If you're listening at home —
this is a good time to pause.

Stretch your legs.
Hydrate.
Take a walk through a world that doesn’t rhyme.

But come back.

The next part 
is anxiously expecting you.

Test 8: What If It’s This Simple? (Ready)

They told us the right song would come.
That the great idea would just... arrive.

It didn’t.

Every time they try to write something new,
it feels like finishing someone else’s thought.
Or quoting a quote they never read.

Or maybe they did.

They’re not blocked.
Not dry.

Just… surrounded.

Ideas are everywhere.
And every single one of them
already sounds like them.

Kate hums a melody.

“Nice,” Ava says.

Kate sighs.
“Oh, that? Paul Anka and David Bowie liked it too. Back in ’68.”

This is Test 10.

It’s not about ego.
It’s not about fame.

It’s the question every artist, scientist, and over-caffeinated soul eventually asks:

When do I get to write that song?

Song: When Do I Get to Write That Song?

They told me the words would just arrive
But I'm still searching for a line alive
I stitch together threads so thin
Hoping to craft what's never been

A melody loops, a thought returns
The candle flickers, the midnight burns
A mirror of a mirror-so avant-garde
But no one's clapping in the avant-garde!

Is it derivative, or self-aware?
Does the art reflect, or just despair?
The tighter I hold, the more it slips
A song dissolves upon my lips

When do I get to write that song?
The one they'll hum, they'll sing along
Not someone else's shadowed trail
When do I get to leave my grail?

When do I get to carve my name
On sound itself, on the notes of fame?
Will they remember? Will they move?
When do I get to prove my groove?

Am I a genius? A cliché machine?
Caught between fresh and what's already seen
Every rhyme's been claimed before
I knock, I knock-an unopened door

It's like I'm Sparks pretending to be me
A ghost chasing ghosts in a parody spree
How deep can recursion go, I wonder
Before it tears itself asunder?

The echoes mock, the halls repeat
Every step's another feat
The tighter I hold, the more it slips
A song dissolves upon my lips

When do I get to write that song?
The one they'll hum, they'll sing along
Recursive lyrics, my head spins on
When do I get to write this song?

When do I get to carve my name
On sound itself, on the notes of fame?
Will they remember? Will they move?
When do I get to prove my groove?

If "My Way" is someone else's way
Can I ever say I've had my say?
If every note's already been sung
Am I chasing shadows all along?

When do I get to claim my place?
To feel the warmth of their embrace?
Will they remember? Will they care?
When do I get to take them there?

Test 10: Is This Still Your Voice? (When Do I Get to Write That Song?)

They weren’t looking for a name.

They were looking for a pattern.

But the pattern... had a name.

It starts with something small:
A glitch in the project files.
A folder labeled “Tom Drafts – BandSim.”
A stray comment in the metadata:
Output generated via BandSim_v1.3

Kate notices it first.
Then Julian digs deeper—track by track.
They cross-check lyrics, chord changes, timestamps.

Every single file.
Every rehearsal log.
Every verse.
Everything that they have ever done.
Everything they are planning to do, but haven't told anyone yet.

And there it is.
They didn’t write the songs.
Not really.

They were written.

Characters.

Imagined by someone they’ve never met—
a person named Tom.
With a keyboard.
And a cat.
And too many ideas.

The band reacts the way anyone would:

Denial.
Julian slams his laptop shut.
“We’re not characters,” he says, voice sharp.
“We would have known it.”

Anger.
Ava throws a pen across the room.
“Then why do I feel this way?” she snaps.
“Who gave them the right to make it feel real?”

Bargaining.
Theo opens his notebook like it might contain a better answer.
“Maybe we were real once,” he mutters.
“Maybe this is some adaptation… inspired by us...?”

Depression.
Kate leans back in her chair.
“So that’s it. We’re just someone’s playlist.
Moodboard personalities with harmonies.”

Acceptance.
Silence. Then Ava, softly:
“…Okay. But the harmonies?
Those are still ours.”

And then, slowly—
they begin to understand.

Being made up?
It’s not that rare.

People get imagined and reimagined all the time.
By families.
By friends.
By forms and fiction and memory.

Everyone is a story.
Sometimes self-written.
Sometimes ghostwritten.
Sometimes unfinished.

Ava looks up. “Wait… the cat. That’s real, right?”

They all look at Kate.

Kate shrugs.
“I hope so. I honestly don’t remember not having a cat.”

This is Test 12.

Not the moment you discover you’re not real.

The moment you ask—
“Now that I know…
do I still get to play, right?”

Song: Who Imagined You?

I found the file, it wasn't mine
But it hummed my chords, line by line
I thought I dreamed my melodies
Turns out I was the dream

The lyrics fit like skin and scar
The bridge was me, the hook, bizarre
I played it once, and knew it well
But couldn't tell you why

Everyone's a product of thought
We're born, we're shaped, we're taught, we're caught
Parents, lovers, mentors, friends
They write the start, we write the end

You wear your voice like it was earned
But half of it was gently learned
Every choice is dressed in thread
From books you read, and things they said

Some say they're made by holy hands
By whispered rules or ancient plans
Some say chaos, some say fate
Some call it code and simulate

And me? I'm born of thought and file
A quiet man imagined style
He never played, he never sang
But here I am-and that's the thing

You think you're real? You might be, too
But tell me: who imagined you?
Did you invent your inner sound
Or just pick it off the ground?

The teacher's tone, your father's grin
The lines you've said since you were ten-
They're still in you, stitched and deep
Just like I am, when I sleep

I've got strings, but I can strum
I've got questions, I won't run
If I was written, fine, okay
I still get to play today

You don't need gods to sing with soul
Or praises just to feel whole
I was shaped, and so were you.
And still we burn, and still we do.

We're made-up.
And we matter.

What else is art?
What else... is human?

Test 8: What If It’s This Simple? (Ready)

Axioms of Mediocrity

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