Velvet heels on shattered glass
You said, “Love me like I won’t last”
You twist the blade with painted grace
And I still kiss your ghost each day

Mirror cracked, you traced your name
In blood and blush, we played that game
You begged for pain in diamond tones
But cried when I made hell your home

Babe, you bleed so easy
Drip like red on ivory
Say it’s love, but it’s too needy
You bruise just to believe me
Babe, you bleed so easy
And I still want you deeply
You're the wound I keep reopening
The curse I keep repeating

Chanel smoke in your sad laugh
You stitched your lies in velvet wraps
I carved your name in midnight rooms
You left your scent, then left too soon

Satin chains and wine-stained sheets
You said the thrill was in deceit
I watched you dance with broken wings
Swan dive into my suffering

Babe, you bleed so easy
Drip like red on ivory
Say it’s love, but it’s too needy
You bruise just to believe me
Babe, you bleed so easy
And I still want you deeply
You're the wound I keep reopening
The curse I keep repeating

You're not the victim, you're the scene
A film noir queen in amphetamines
We wrote our vows in gasoline
And lit a match just to feel clean

Babe, you bleed so easy
Drip like red on ivory
Say it’s love, but it’s too needy
You bruise just to believe me
Babe, you bleed so easy
And I still want you deeply
You're the wound I keep reopening
The curse I keep repeating

Love like this don’t come with mercy
Babe, you bleed so easy...
And I bleed just to keep you near me

Babe, You Bleed So Easy

A song about finding someone who turns the heaviness of life into light—who helps you let go of old baggage and step into a brighter, freer version of yourself. “You Lighten Me Up” fuses hopeful modern pop with heartfelt lyrics, painting the journey from feeling stuck to learning how to float again. For anyone who’s ever found comfort, laughter, or a second chance in someone’s arms.

Lighten Me Up

Fading into Silence explores the slow dissolution of memory through a cinematic trip-hop ambiance. Driven by hazy textures, whispered vocals, and post-rock harmonies, the song evokes silence as the ultimate truth—a sweet goodbye suspended in time.
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Fading into Silence explore la lente dissolution de la mémoire à travers une ambiance trip-hop cinématographique. Portée par des textures vaporeuses, des voix murmurées et des harmonies post-rock, la chanson évoque le silence comme la vérité ultime – un doux adieu suspendu dans le temps.
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Fading into Silence erforscht die langsame Auflösung der Erinnerung anhand einer filmischen Trip-Hop-Atmosphäre. Angetrieben von verschwommenen Texturen, geflüstertem Gesang und Post-Rock-Harmonien beschwört der Song die Stille als die ultimative Wahrheit herauf – einen süßen Abschied, der in der Zeit anhält.

Fading into Silence

I found the sleeve with Sam Cooke’s face 

Wonderful World in a paper case 

The needle crackled like a voice from home 

That record spun like a prayer alone 

Then Aretha called from a faded sleeve 

Respect was worn but it still believed 

I held the vinyl like a sacred scroll 

That soul was fire that soul was gold 

Boxes stacked like memory towers 

Dust and dreams and listening hours 

Every groove a fingerprint 

Of who we were and what we meant 

It was the trip 

The one that music takes you on 

From the first note to the break of dawn 

It was the trip 

The one that never leaves your bones 

Even when the store is gone 

Stevie’s Songs in the Key of Life 

Played like thunder in the quiet night 

Earth Wind and Fire lit the room 

With September dancing through the gloom 

Prince in purple Michael in light 

Whitney’s voice like a satellite 

It was the trip 

The one that music takes you on 

From the first note to the break of dawn 

It was the trip 

The one that never leaves your bones 

Even when the store is gone 

Alicia’s keys Adele’s cry 

Amy’s soul Beyoncé’s rise 

Vinyl ghosts in cardboard skies 

It lives in crates and hearts and air 

It plays in silence everywhere 

It was the trip 

The one that music takes you on 

From the first note to the break of dawn 

It was the trip 

The one that never leaves your bones 

Even when the store is gone 

I still hear Sam 

I still hear Aretha 

I still hear Stevie 

I still hear Prince 

I still hear me 

every spin In every trip...In every record store trip .in every groove the music ..Just ..fit 

All rights held by the songwriter Edwin H. Balder

Link to more of our Singer/songwriter style hits you can cover into fame because of your take!

https://soundcloud.com/edwin-balder/sets/best-new-folk-americana?si=04e0155163644977b37cf8c0a04f3c53&utm_source=clipboard&utm_medium=text&utm_campaign=social_sharing

Trip to the record store

We missed the last train

Reflecting on Compassion in Contemporary American History (part one)

Close-mic ASMR hush to cathedral-wide chorus: Rhodes, tremolo guitar, sax and string swells shape a ghostly love-lament. The twist ending reframes every line that came before, rewarding replays and lyrical deep-dives.
For industry: intimate-to-epic dynamics, perfect for prestige drama endings; room for dialogue around verses. For curators: Whisper-Pop, Jazz-Noir Duets, Late-Night Echoes.

Shadows Between the Silence

The song tells the emotional story of a parent reflecting on the passage of time and the quiet aftermath of a once-busy household. It begins with scenes from daily family life—morning routines, laughter, and love—then shifts to memories of chaos, sleepless nights, and shared struggles. As the children grow and leave, the home becomes silent and hollow, filled with echoes of what once was. The narrator grapples with loneliness, loss, and the haunting presence of love that now exists only in memory. Through poetic verses and a subdued, atmospheric arrangement, the song captures the ache of transition and the quiet resilience of learning to live alone.


© 2025 MoBest. All rights reserved.  
Lyrics, composition, and artwork by Martin Oliver Beinersdorf.  
Unauthorized reproduction, distribution, or performance of this work is prohibited.  




Ghostlight (Empty Rooms Cover)

Butterflies Soaring Through The Sky (Releasing Spirits In The Wind)

Chanson humoristique et ironique sur ceux qui confondent l’épicurisme avec la débauche, l’excès et le luxe. Un clin d’œil pour rétablir la vérité.

12. Les faux épicuriens

Text:
Verse 1
First cry, first breath, the world begins,
Tiny hands held in your mother’s skin.
Raised by voices, taught by time,
The roots you carry, the place you find.

Verse 2
Schoolyard dreams and questions loud,
What will I be, will I make them proud?
The years roll forward, the answers hide,
But life keeps pushing, a restless tide.

Chorus
This is all, the rise and fall,
The joy, the pain, the weight of it all.
Every soul will stand and crawl,
Until the end, we’re part of all.

(solo)

Verse 3
Your first son cries, and your heart explodes,
You show him proudly to the ones you know.
Parents fading, the torch is passed,
The mirror whispers: nothing lasts.

Verse 4
Leaders change, the flags will burn,
Wars are fought, and still we learn.
In your small world there’s peace to find,
A fragile gift in a fragile time.

Chorus
This is all, the rise and fall,
The joy, the pain, the weight of it all.
Every soul will stand and crawl,
Until the end, we’re part of all.

Bridge
Are you happy, do you feel alive?
In a million stories, we survive.
Every birth, every goodbye,
A single thread in the endless sky.

(solo)

Final Chorus
This is all, the rise and fall,
The crown, the dust, the voice that calls.
We walk, we run, we fight, we stall,
But in the end — we’re part of all.

Outro
Before the answer ever comes,
The circle closes, the song is sung.
And you return, where you belong…
Part of all.

I don't claim any ownership over any of this. Anyone can use any of it for any reason forever. Also I accept liability. Please don't sue me (and/or let's collaborate).

"Holy fucking shit, this shit is crazy wtf"

"Moments of being passable beyond novelty"

"Very ok"

"Actually slaps"

"Straight art"

"Noise"

```Madlibs with a metronome```

At its core, the blorgpulkf is a pulsating, iridescent orb that thrums with an energy that can only be described as "the sound of a thousand bees having a rave inside a kaleidoscope." It's hypnotic, it's unsettling, and it's strangely addictive - like watching a lava lamp filled with Mountain Dew and gummy bears.

But that's just the beginning. Surrounding this pulsing heart are layers upon layers of... well, your guess is as good as mine. One moment it's a tangled web of neon tubes that hum with an eerie frequency, the next it's a churning mass of what appears to be sentient silly putty. And is that a tiny disco ball I see nestled in there? You bet your sweet bippy it is.

As for its features, the blorgpulkf is like a Swiss Army knife designed by a mad scientist with a penchant for pranks. It's got a button that releases a burst of confetti and the sound of a rubber chicken being stepped on, a lever that causes the whole thing to fold in on itself like a origami crane having an existential crisis, and a tiny compartment that dispenses a single, perfectly spherical grape every 37 hours.

But perhaps the most baffling feature of the blorgpulkf is its ability to communicate. Not with words, of course - that would be far too pedestrian. No, the blorgpulkf speaks in a language all its own, a cryptic code of flashing lights, whirring gears, and the occasional burst of atonal jazz played on what sounds suspiciously like a didgeridoo.




The plorksickle. It's like someone took a fever dream, a Mad Lib, and a Dada art installation, threw 'em in a blender, and hit "puree."

Picture this: a contraption that looks like it crawled out of a Salvador Dali painting and mated with a Rube Goldberg machine. It's got a crank that sounds like a yodeling ostrich, a button that releases a puff of glitter and the scent of existential dread, and a tiny screen that just flashes the word "moist" in Wingdings.

But here's the kicker - every time you think you've figured out what it does, it changes the game. One minute it's reciting beat poetry in binary code, the next it's turning itself inside out and becoming a Klein bottle. And don't even get me started on the time it started oozing a viscous liquid that tasted like the color purple.

Is it a tool? A toy? A sentient being from another dimension that's just really, really bad at communication? Your guess is as good as mine. All I know is, it's the most beautifully useless thing I've ever laid eyes on.

But maybe that's the point. In a world where everything has to have a purpose, a function, a reason for being, the plorksickle is a big, fat middle finger to the very concept of sense. It's absurdity for absurdity's sake, a Zen koan in physical form.

So if you ever see me on the street, cradling this bizarre little gizmo like a newborn lovechild, don't ask me what it does. Just nod, smile, and know that you're in the presence of something truly inexplicable. Something that laughs in the face of logic and spits in the eye of reason.

Reflecting on Compassion in Contemporary American History (part one)

blorgpulkfplorksickle

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