Raw, Rewarding, Real
What the hell are you doing with your life—doom-scrolling social media, getting your blood boiling, and firing off venomous rants? Or just lurking like a coward, dropping an emoji and slinking away? Or screw it all—pick up that guitar, strum like your soul depends on it, and refuse to get fooled by the digital circus again? Logic screams the guitar wins every time. It's raw, rewarding, and real. But don't get me wrong: free speech isn't some optional luxury—it's the goddamn lifeline of freedom. Use it or watch it bleed out. The question is, how much of your precious time are you willing to waste on echo chambers that chew you up and spit you out?
Let's face it: blasting your political hot takes online is a sucker's game. I've never cracked 100 likes on any of mine—pathetic, right? But here's the kicker: those same posts rack up thousands of clicks. People are peeking, lurking, devouring the drama without committing a single emoji or comment. Why? Because we're wired for rage. We crave the chaos. All that "kindness" and "empathy" bullshit? It's spineless non-confrontation. No fight, no thrill. We're the rubberneckers at a car wreck, slowing down to gawk at the blood and twisted metal. Mayhem videos go viral for a reason—they ignite that primal fire in our guts. Admit it: you love getting pissed off. It's addictive, isn't it?
Gut-puncher
Time's slipping away, ticking like a bomb. Here I am typing this when I could be shredding through finger-blistering exercises on 7th chords or finally recording those tracks burning in my brain. My latest? A pop ode to New Hampshire flipping its motto from “die” to “fight”; a battle cry against depression that mocks climate change alarmism, as if the climate were ever static; a metaphor for America's foundation based on a bridge; and a diddy with no fairy-tale fixes—just brutal tradeoffs, straight from Thomas Sowell. And the gut-puncher: "Barry," calling out the bigotry of a two-term president whose wife only felt "proud" of America when her partner conned his way in. Naïve voters? Hell, we were played.
Why ditch the keyboard for strings? Engagement—the kind that hits you in the face, not some algorithm's ghost town. My songs? They bomb harder than my posts—zero fans storming the gates. But damn, my playing's leveled up over the years. Guitar's meant to be alive, shared in the flesh. Picture this: me at an open mic in Tamworth, raw and exposed, no filters, no deletes. The crowd? Fellow strummers and maybe a bored spouse or two. No roaring stadiums here—just polite claps, if you're lucky. But that's the rush: you're on the hook. Instant judgment. Like a comic bombing onstage, you crave that hysterical breakout. Laughter during my set? I'd flip the bird and keep strumming. My tunes aren't jokes—they're meant to stab emotions. Brutal truth: most are too bland, too forgettable. Polite "likes"? Spare me. I want love or hate—something that scars the soul and sticks.
Music critics don't waste ink on vanilla crap. With submissions piling up like garbage, they cherry-pick the provocative bombshells—the ones that sell magazines and rile readers. My songs? Too beige, too tepid, like lukewarm cocoa in a world craving punk's savage snarl. In-your-face confrontation. Should I crank the volume, make lyrics that punch guts and spark riots?
Crushed Under Censorship's Boot
I can't shut up about politics when my brain's on fire—it's therapy, offloading the poison for you suckers to choke on. Likes be damned. But I'm vigilant—we're one slip from losing free expression, that sacred right crushed under censorship's boot. I despise it with every fiber. Songwriting? It's my escape hatch, my rebellion. Not all my tracks are political grenades; some roam free. But what if I weaponize them? Make them provoke, enrage, feel? Imagine songs that don't just play—they ignite revolutions in your chest.
So, what's your move? Keep feeding the machine, or grab your axe and make something that matters? Time to decide—before it's too late.