there’s a price we all pay, a rate of exchange
to make ideas in our heads into art on a page
the transfer takes place when you pick up the pen
as the perfect idea leaves to corners of your head
sinking in seas of sequence and memory
fighting for life like overturned centipedes
you grab life rafts before they all drown
you save some, other words can’t be found
you write down tandems in random order
stare at the ground but you keep pushing forward
the ink takes shape of original thought
a string of events becomes a story and a plot
the story gets recorded, overdubbed and reworked
cos your voice sounds boring when you form the words
slam the door, take the stairs, give it time, let it happen
work on form, get some air, say the lines, make the magic

this is the song that you never wrote
the words that stayed stuck in the back of your throat
the ones that left the second that you picked up the pen
the idea you had that you’ll never get again

frustrated with the nonsense that got on the page
you made a promise to take a break and walk away
is all you’ve got to say corny polysyllabics?
and self-schematics like, “just watch me establish
my place in the game with my name on the crown”
but the way you explain makes you sound like a clown
in your head all the raps are the best on the record
but the pen and the pad can’t get it together
so you let it develop, took some time to relax
if your mind is detached then the rhymes’ll come back
as you’re trying to step back, your head runs in circles
so you grab a scrap from the back of your journal
turn to the side as the words blur in time
which went where, how did I finish that line?
the words aren’t working, syllables out of place
your eyes are burning and the page is still blank

it’s painting a scene, a flame flickers and burns
what came as a dream is conveyed in the words

out of my element, I rap for the hell of it
close my eyes and feel beats like Helen Keller did,
consensus is my penmanship could use less senselessness
the rhetoric’s irrelevant, seperate from sentences
developing intelligence makes a fan tell a friend
so you can circle earth the same way that Magellan did
Africa, Asia, New York to san diego
on the way change your world vu like deja
from draining Bacardi at basement parties
to going back home where they still call me Charlie
to phone calls from buses, fraternity rushes
earning nothing, still trying to work a budget
am I learning something, each show with new kids
who came to sip drinks but don’t hear the music?
right now it’s too loud and the lights are too low
quiet things I won’t know, just go on with the show

this is the song that never gets written
trapped in the back of your mind like a prison
trying to see through the fog in your hell
finally finding the key and unlocking the cell

hum the instrumental, tap your feet to the tempo
your favorite song was once just lead in a pencil
a piano stroke, a couple notes in a margin
organized into lines in the mind of an artist
lying on the carpet and trying to get it started
or driving and writing, finding himself carsick
stop to vomit in garbage, but he can’t lose that flow
words are seeds in a garden, need to leave room to grow
planted in rows, they need strength from the sunlight
so he can’t sleep til the beat is coming just right
just like the words, first they’re blank canvas
as the colors swirl and explode like a canon
load up the handgun, metaphors in the clip
ignore the corporal’s orders and perform it to kids
Lawrence and Trish were origins of my life
but it’s this mind that made the dormant arise



Lyrics submitted by earlynovember11

Writer's Block Paranoia song meanings
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