I'm in the back of a limousine with Charlie Chaplin and it’s 1928. Charlie is beautiful; his body language seems to skip, and reel and rhyme, heartbreaking and witty at the same time. It seems to promise a better world.
Life has shown me all too often that there is no rhyme or reason to the cruelty inflicted upon humanity.
It's your worst sin saving your f***ing life; It's the devil's knife carving holes into your soul so angels have a way to make their way inside; Life doesn't rhyme. Still, life is poetry, not math. The whole world's a stage, but the stage is a meditation mat. You tilt your head back; you breathe. when your heart is broken, you plant seeds in the cracks and you pray for rain.
They say man he reading rhymes off his iPhone, no I texting your girl meet me at my home
Living by synchronicity isn't merely about getting messages. It is about growing the poetic consciousness that allows us to taste and touch what rhymes and resonates in the world we inhabit, and how the world-behind-th e-world reveals itself by fluttering the veils of our consensual reality.
History doesn't repeat itself; it rhymes.
I'm sure 50 percent of television ads use rhyme
Children seem naturally drawn to poetry - it's some combination of the rhyme, rhythm, and the words themselves.
Lyrics are very different. There is a clear line between that and a poem. Something that has been a source of great excitement and delight for me is this idea that I get to rhyme.
I like rhyme because it is memorable, I like form because having to work to a pattern gives me original ideas.
You know, the music business is like the Lotto. Just put your numbers down and sometimes they hit, and sometimes they don't. There's just no rhyme or reason.
I work best in rhyme and meter. I was most confident of myself in that way.
I believe that these devices like repetition and rhyme are not artificial, that they're not imposed, somehow, on the language.
You will love again, people say. Give it time. Me with time running out. Day after day of the everyday. What they call real life, made of eighth-inch gauge. Newness strutting around as if it were significant. Irony, neatness and rhyme pretending to be poetry. I want to go back to that time after Michiko's death when I cried every day among the trees. To the real. To the magnitude of pain, of being that much alive.
I can't even make up a rhyme about an umbrella, let alone death and life and eternal peace.
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a muse' d rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy!
I like it that my career has all the predictability and continuity of a children's nonsense rhyme.
Men don't make passes at crones with big (rhymes with passes).
I still don't know how to express the really delicate personal stuff. People think that Plastic Ono is very personal, but there are some subtleties of emotions which I cannot seem to express in pop music, and it frustrates me. Maybe that's why I still search for other ways of expressing myself. Song writing is a limiting experience in some ways - writing down words that have to rhyme.
Rhyme to kill, rhyme to murder, rhyme to stomp, Rhyme to ill, rhyme to romp, Rhyme to smack, rhyme to shock, rhyme to roll, Rhyme to destroy anything, toy boy. On the microphone: I'm Poppa Large, big shot on the East Coast.
Some of you been trying to write rhymes for years, But weak ideas irritate my ears. Is this the best that you can make? Cause if not, and you got more...I'll wait.
People say, 'Grimm, you've been shot like 50. So why don't you just rhyme like 50? Then, you could get the money like 50, Otherwise, before you see success...you'll be 50.'
Ayo, shout out to Mobb Deep, the Extra P Busta Rhymes, De La, the J Beez, so don't sleep
We live in an era where it ain't about dope rhymes. When beef is online, and how big is your co-sign.
See, you're out your mind tryin' to face tha God. Your rhyme is like an empty prison...a waste of bars.
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