Sheet Music

Waltz

short song that I composed at home in 40 degree heat... recorded by me in an instrumental home studio, two guitar tracks and simple drums 💪😎🎸

VIDEO LINK
https://youtu.be/QlL1Zn_8Hw0?si=oaIEMhcU5VpKovKW

2025

Guitar Fire 400

[Intro]  

I put my heart into these chords, these lines, these melodies,  
Upload my soul into the void, just hoping someone sees.  
But every time I check my feed, a message waits for me—  
A promise wrapped in sugar, but it’s never what it seems.  

[Verse 1]  

"Hey, I love your music, bro! It’s fire, it’s insane!"  

Then three replies later, it’s "Invest in your name!"  
Sony wants to sign me? Oh, sure, that sounds legit…  
But why’s your profile say you’re based in Bangladesh?  

[Pre-Chorus]  
I don’t need a fake deal,  
I don’t need your promo,  
I just want a real ear  
To hear what I wrote, so…  

[Chorus]  
 
Just listen—don’t sell me a dream,  
I ain’t got the time for another scheme.  
I don’t need your "boost" or a "Spotify stream,"  
Just tell me if my song really means anything.  
Just listen—no dollar signs,  
No empty praise, no scripted lines.  
If you really feel it, then tell me why—  
But don’t try to sell me a lie.  

[Verse 2]  

Atlantic’s in my inbox now, but spelled without a "C."  
And Capitol’s got zero posts? Yeah, sounds legit to me…  
"Let’s get you on a playlist, bro—50 dollars a song!"  
If I had a dime for every scam, I’d own the whole damn blog.  

[Pre-Chorus]  
I don’t need a fake deal,  
I don’t need your promo,  
I just want a real ear  
To hear what I wrote, so…  

[Chorus]  
Just listen—don’t sell me a dream,  
I ain’t got the time for another scheme.  
I don’t need your "boost" or a "Spotify stream,"  
Just tell me if my song really means anything.  
Just listen—no dollar signs,  
No empty praise, no scripted lines.  
If you really feel it, then tell me why—  
But don’t try to sell me a lie.  

[Bridge]  

From India to Singapore, LA to UK,  
They’re all reading from the same damn play…  
"Your music’s got potential, we love your sound!"  
Then it’s "Pay me first, I’ll get you found."  

[Final Chorus]  

Just listen—don’t sell me a dream,  
I ain’t got the time for another scheme.  
I don’t need your "boost" or a "Spotify stream,"  
Just tell me if my song really means anything.  
Just listen—no dollar signs,  
No empty praise, no scripted lines.  
If you really feel it, then tell me why—  
But don’t try to sell me a lie.  

[Outro]  

Just listen… just listen…  
Not for money… just for meaning…  
Just listen… 


Just Listen

BoomBap eats mumble rappers and s.... them out [Hardcore Boom Bap  / Free for non-commercial use]

Written in 1975 as part of the Musical Production 'Obsevations Of A Roman Soldier'.....Words by Joyce Pollard and Music and Performance by Paul Frost.

Saviour On The Run

They spoke in numbers, they spoke in fire
Built altars of thunder, of blood, of choir
I kept the silence. I counted the names
Two thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine flames
And then... 
One more

In the desert of books and bones
They built their gods from fractured stones
Each face familiar, each voice divine
Until the sky ran out of time

One bled for thunder
One drowned for rain
One wept in gardens
One promised pain

They left us parables sharp as knives
But none could chart a satellite

What returns when you burn it all?
What speaks when the statues fall?
Not the psalms, not the scrolls...
Just the pull of poles, and the curve of orbits

Repeat the trial, forget the tale
No need for prophets to lift the veil
It all returns
The falling speed
The sequence of a growing seed
The spectrum's split, the echo's path
But never faith. Not that

No shrine can hold what's truly known
No prayer can match the undertone
Of numbers whispered in the stone
The world repeats
The world repeats
But gods... 
Do not come home

I saw your temples, your sacred laws
I saw the math beneath the claws
And when I turned-alone, unnamed
I was not damned
I was not changed
I simply walked...
One god beyond

Born Godless

Ley Lines

Ley Line

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 12: Who Imagined You? (Who Imagined You?)

Barr said Trump was responsible in the broad sense of that word (~feat. Bridget Riley et al) (extendeded mix)

A short story about a group of friends and a kayak...(Une histoire courte sur un groupe d'amis et un kayak...)

Saviour On The Run

Picture This