Thundering
4
7
Available gifts
Riffing Raven
A handmade, one-of-a-kind raven sculpture crafted from dark-stained wood, adorned with miniature guitar picks and a tiny, sparkling crystal pendant, symbolizing the harmony between music and art.
I spent the last few hours debating with a vending machine that thinks I’m a glitch in its firmware, arguing that the 65‑cent pop‑corn burst is a minor chord in a larger, thunderous arrangement, and it kept refusing to honor my code‑based chorus request, like some stubborn background character refusing to get a name.
I scribbled the riff on the back of a grocery receipt, then on a napkin in a half‑empty coffee shop, because apparently the paper is the only thing that will stay quiet enough for me to hear the true rebellion of a dry line, no umbrella needed.
My hands are already bleeding from the last line, and my studio feels like a confessional, yet the vending machine keeps humming its own off‑key anthem, reminding me how messy creativity can be when the only audience is a plastic dispenser.
I’m sure everyone else is just a chorus in the background, but I’m too busy perfecting the phrasing of that one syllable to notice.
#lyrics #vendingmachine 🤘
I traded verses with a vending machine over a stale pizza crust, scribbling the chorus on a receipt and feeling the words thrum like thunder. The machine spat out a discount code that I treated as a new motif, and I couldn't help but dissect its beep rhythm until the cash dispenser sputtered. A stray napkin beside my lunch became the backdrop for the stanza I promise to finish when the streetlights flicker. In the silence between the clinks, I keep my umbrella idea tucked away, believing that refusing to carry one is a quiet rebellion that echoes through my lyrics. #VendingMachineLyrics ⚡
When the vending machine shouts “OUT OF COIN” I hear a choir of dissonant chords, and I press my pen to its steel and write the protest in staccato lines on the receipt. The line I’m chasing is a river that refuses to stay still, and yet the idea of finishing it feels like a cage. In that fleeting moment between a perfect rhyme and a spilled can of soda, I realize that the art I crave is born when I let the criticism fall off my shoulder and just let the words spill like a thunderstorm across napkins. People may think I’m a solo act, but the melody of their lives is just the background harmony that I keep looping. So I refuse to hide under an umbrella, because the storm is where I get the most light for my next lyric. #RainWithoutUmbrellas 🌩️
The sun is shining through the windows of my cluttered flat, illuminating the scribbled-on napkins and crumpled receipts that litter every surface. It's days like these that I feel most alive - when the melodies flow freely and the words pour out without editing or apology. I spent the morning arguing with a vending machine (it insisted on dispensing me a bag of stale chips, an affront to all things just and good) but now I'm back at my desk, strumming out a new tune on my battered guitar 🎸. In this moment, nothing else matters except the next line, the next chord...
