Embrace the banjo and the Southern drawl. Bryan finds himself driving around until in the morning so he can hear some mystery girl sing every song on the radio. This song has all the magic, joy, and loss that come left of the dial. Nashville-based brother duo John and T. From the glittering intro to the lengthy guitar solo pro tip: skip the radio edit for the full version , the instrumentals pack power into a song that leaves a lasting impression.
American culture tirelessly renders women as objects to be consumed by men, but Swift turns the tables here, reducing her shitty ex-boyfriend to a picture that she can torch and move on. Burn, baby, burn. But the mongrelization started decades back, led by Saint Waylon.
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And that doggerel — horny, boastful, silly, epigrammatic, steeped in his local vernacular — looks ahead, too, to hip-hop. So you start it again. That was a formative summer for millions of millennials who cut their teeth on country music and homicide at the same time. It has murder plots, girl power, and black comedy all wrapped up in a tarp. It also proved that Natalie Maines was an angel-voiced fiend, like Barbara Stanwyck in a jean jacket.
Pistol Annie Presley paints a drearily familiar picture in this morning-after song. Like Lynn, Presley is a realist. You swear you love the city lights. You swear not having time to cook is fine by you. Give in to the music: You want that fiddle. And you most certainly want to sleep next to the love of your life in a little house behind a cornfield. So, yeah, country sounds like Nineties rock now.
What of it? Most Miranda Lambert records have more bite and fire than most mopey alternative ever did. The track is brash but stately, the chords jagged but chiming, the pedal steel a seam of pure sugar in a sour-candy confection. The wind greets the gardener, who greets the pigeons, who greets bluebirds, who tweet to the doctor.
The doctor greets the poets. The poets greet other poets.
These poets greet a curvy dressmaker. Each one greets this crisp sunny day. Orson Welles never existed? Or Vienna? Would I have faked my death or made sure of hers?
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And what if there is a single truth? Until you look past the cobwebs in attics, shuffle through pictures and old letters, all the other secrets hidden away in trunks and unmarked boxes, or look into the eyes of the last lingerers, who worry a little more than the rest of us about what awaits them in the afterlife. I feel like Sylvia Plath. And so what? I remember her once offering me a lank length of hair and lifting her chin as if to say, Here, wrap it around my neck.
As if to say, Please. What if. When most people hear the word, they think of something romantic. Not me. When I hear the word love, I think of my mother, how she takes care of me no matter what. Of my sisters, always there, always ready to do anything. I think of my nieces and nephews, who say they love us more. This is love. There is love in the air, when someone says I do. That kiss under the altar; the one that shows you will love them, in sickness and in health. Thinking over and over of seeing their face Anticipating that moment your in their presence Just so you can take in a breath, love.
I really enjoyed your poem, it really gives an understanding of those little moments in which you realize you are truly in love. I really liked what your poem said about love. It captures all the little moments in which you would expect for the love not to be reinforced but yet it is. Like when you mention that the source of your annoyance is that specific person but yet you realize at that moment that you love them just the same.
The three words that fools a weak mind. Trust that is no longer there. Space and time was shared. Shared like the secrets you once told because their presence was perfect. Perfect just like their lies. Lies that torn everything apart. Apart like the relationship. A relationship that will never be seen again. Again, again, and again those three words are the reason why so many are afraid to feel. Your eyes are like emeralds in the sun And like the deep blue in the shade.
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Your red hair like fire in the wind. She took one look at him and knew.
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On that cold October night dressed in her bright yellow sunflower jacket she was gifted last christmas. The brown eyed boy, that was not hers but would do anything to be, stood in the snow with her. Shuddering from the cold but yielding a smile as bright as her jacket. He showed her he was willing to wait and would freeze right beside her just to keep her close.
On that cold October night dressed in her bright yellow sunflower jacket, she was gifted last Christmas. The brown-eyed boy, that was not hers but would do anything to be, stood in the snow with her. Is this love? Overwhelmed by my uncertainty A mother to women A wife to a man Is this love? Sacrificing my freedom for you Sleeping in my sorrow Self-loathing because of my compliance Is this love? I wanted to live with my parents and I didn't want to leave them. Her in-laws treated her kindly, but she often stayed inside doing housework while her mother-in-law judged her domestic abilities.
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Girls as young as 16 can still get married at the discretion of a judge, a provision which human rights groups opposed because it presents challenges in implementing the law nationwide. Next, that parents know the law. Her own so, now 35, got married at age 24 after he finished school and got a job. Sign up for the best of VICE, delivered to your inbox daily. In Guatemala, 30 percent of girls are married by age