I want to write lyrics that hold up as poetry.  I want to write melodies good for whistling.  I want to write songs that make the rounds over campfires.  I want to write the album people play on the highway all alone.  I want to write the song that reminds you of a friend.  I’d like to give away a song.  I’d like to say, “Well here comes a song that’s been good to me…”  I’d like to win a Grammy.

A song can carry more than words and music.  A song can represent one time to another.  A song is a good way to say things like I love you.  I’m sorry.  I’m not sorry.

Songs question, answer, reinforce archetypes, reject them, comment of culture, preserve heritage, celebrate language, express humanity.  A song can mean hardly anything and symbolize an era.

Songs are decided for weddings.  Decided for funerals.  Decided for kissing scenes in television programs.  Made to jingle a sales pitch.  Songs solidify hearts on the dance floor.  Teach children the names of colors.  We have a national anthem.  College flight songs.  Sacred music.  Roots music.  The hymns.  The Psalms.  A mother’s voice humming over her baby.  Take me out to the ballgame.  Hey Macarena.

A song got you through something.  A song got you into something.  A song played in the background.  A song got passed around.  A song meant something once that you couldn’t feel later.  A song hit you by surprise.  A song made you think of home.  A song was home.  Maybe you ran away with a song.

You needed a song.  You stole a song.  You gave a song.  You bought something with a song.  A song ran too long.  Didn’t start fast enough.  Got skipped.  Got put in the wrong case.  Got borrowed and never given back.  Got forgot.  Felt like a broke down song.  Didn’t have a quarter for the song.  Singing to a room that just stared back, didn’t know your song.  But you still had your song, and you turned it up a little bit.

It was a song that made you ask her.  That first time, you held her to a song.  You heard the birds singing a song.  You put her into your song.  Your song found harmony.  Your song trusted some roots.

There’s a grey day song, a blue day song, a rainy day song, and a cold winter song.  There’s an out over the water song, a deep in the woods song, a lost in the desert song, a high on the mountain song.  A morning song, a midday song, a quittin’ time song, an evening song, a late night song, a howl at the moon song.  An I’m gonna regret it song.  An I already regret it song.  A what happened anyway song.

There’s an old song.  A new song.  Every song was born some way.  They sit on your knee.  Get recopied on a clean sheet.  They fall out of the wind, get built from the ground up, they’re purely mechanical, they take a lot of work, they’re purely a gift.  Muse will give you a start.  Like a big brother push on a bike.  Muse will give you a first line or a missing line.  Muse is like a tank connected directly to the heart.  Muse can bring a song like a letter in the mailbox.  Muse can pull a verse like an itch between the shoulder blades.  Muse can feel like yelling at your missing dog.  Muse can be your cell phone ringing in church.  Muse is a swing and a miss, the smack of a ball in a mit, umpire yelling at a horse.  Muse is a crack where the outfielders don’t bother to run.

They say it only takes one song.  Maybe you get to empty your pockets one day and earn a listen.  Even to the long song, the slow start song, the not catchy but more genuine song.  There’s nothing lonelier than an unsung song.  Like a father fighting for his songs, giving what can be given, putting them on clean sheets, a solid take for an mp3, there’s a crowd in the morning for the school bus and your inside penning another mouth to feed.

There’s a lot of ways to write a song, yet there’s only one.  Live a litte bit more, put a little music to it.