How to Write a Songtext: The Art of Crafting Words That Sing
I've been writing songs for nearly two decades now, and if there's one thing I've learned, it's that songwriting is equal parts craft and chaos. You sit down with the best intentions, maybe a melody humming in your head, and suddenly you're staring at a blank page wondering if "heart" really needs to rhyme with "apart" for the millionth time in music history.
The truth about writing songtexts—or lyrics, as we call them in the States—is that there's no magic formula. But there are definitely ways to make the process less painful and more productive. Let me walk you through what actually works, based on years of scribbling in notebooks at 3 AM and occasionally stumbling onto something that makes people cry (in a good way).
Starting With the Bones
Most people think songwriting starts with inspiration. Sometimes it does. More often, it starts with showing up. I learned this the hard way after waiting months for the "perfect moment" to write. Spoiler alert: it never came.
What I do now is simple. I keep a running list of phrases, overheard conversations, and weird observations in my phone. Yesterday, I wrote down "the way streetlights look like halos in the rain." Will it become a song? Maybe. Maybe not. But it's there when I need it.
The real secret is understanding that songs aren't essays or poems or diary entries. They're a completely different beast. A song has to work with music, has to be singable, has to communicate in a way that feels immediate and visceral. You're not just writing words; you're writing words that need to dance with melody and rhythm.
The Melody Question
Here's where songwriters split into camps, and honestly, both sides have a point. Some people write lyrics first, then add melody. Others start with a melody and fill in words. I've done both, and I'll tell you what nobody mentions: starting with melody usually gives you better songs.
Why? Because when you have a melody first, the words have to fit into a musical pocket. They have to flow naturally with the rhythm. They can't be clunky or overly complex. The melody forces you to be economical, and in songwriting, economy is everything.
That said, I've written some of my favorite songs by starting with a single line that wouldn't leave me alone. "I saw you at the grocery store buying flowers for someone else" became a whole song because that image was so specific and painful. The melody came later, shaped by the emotional weight of those words.
Finding Your Voice (And I Mean That Literally)
One mistake I see constantly is people trying to write like their heroes. You're not Bob Dylan. You're not Taylor Swift. You're not Kendrick Lamar. You're you, and that's actually your biggest advantage.
Your voice—your literal speaking voice—has a natural rhythm and cadence. The way you tell stories to your friends, the phrases you use when you're excited or upset, the jokes you make... that's all songwriting gold. I started writing better songs when I stopped trying to sound "poetic" and started writing the way I actually talk.
Try this: record yourself telling a friend about something that happened to you recently. Then transcribe it. Look at the natural pauses, the repetitions, the way you emphasize certain words. That's your voice, and it's more interesting than any imitation could be.
Structure Without Strangling
Yes, most songs follow patterns. Verse-chorus-verse-chorus-bridge-chorus is popular for a reason—it works. But knowing the rules doesn't mean you're enslaved to them. Think of song structure like a house: you need a foundation and walls, but you can arrange the rooms however you want.
I once wrote a song that was just three verses, no chorus, because that's what the story needed. Another time, I wrote a song where the chorus was just one word repeated. Both worked because they served the emotional arc of the song.
The key is understanding why these structures exist. A chorus gives listeners something to hold onto, something familiar that returns. A bridge provides contrast, a moment of revelation or shift in perspective. A pre-chorus builds tension. Use these tools when they help your song, not because you think you're supposed to.
The Dreaded Second Verse
Can we talk about second verses for a minute? They're the worst. You've set up your story, delivered your killer chorus, and now you need to... what? Say the same thing again but different?
Here's what changed everything for me: the second verse isn't about repeating; it's about deepening. If your first verse sets the scene, your second verse should complicate it. Add a twist. Reveal something new. Move forward in time. Change perspective.
I wrote a song where the first verse was about meeting someone, and the second verse jumped ahead ten years to losing them. Same melody, same structure, but the emotional impact was completely different. That contrast is what makes songs memorable.
Writing the Unsayable
The best songs say things we all feel but can't quite articulate. They don't do this through fancy vocabulary or complex metaphors. They do it through specificity and emotional truth.
Instead of writing "I'm sad," write about the half-empty coffee cup on your nightstand that's been there for three days. Instead of "I love you," write about how you still save their voicemails. The specific becomes universal in a way that generic emotions never can.
I learned this lesson when a song I thought was too personal, too specific to my own breakup, became the one people connected with most. The details I was embarrassed to include—the fight in the parking lot of a Denny's, the way I couldn't listen to certain songs anymore—were exactly what made it real.
Rhyme Without Reason (Or With It)
Let's address the elephant in the room: rhyming. Yes, most songs rhyme. No, they don't have to. And no, perfect rhymes aren't always better than imperfect ones.
The best advice I ever got about rhyming came from a songwriter in Nashville who told me, "Make the rhyme serve the line, not the other way around." If you're twisting your meaning into a pretzel just to make a rhyme work, you're doing it wrong.
Some of my favorite songs use slant rhymes, near rhymes, or no rhymes at all. What matters is that the words feel inevitable, like they couldn't be anything else. Sometimes that means a perfect rhyme. Sometimes it means breaking the pattern entirely.
The Rewriting Reality
Here's something nobody wants to hear: your first draft will probably suck. Mine always do. The magic happens in rewriting, in taking that raw emotional splatter and shaping it into something that communicates clearly and powerfully.
I typically go through at least five drafts of a song. The first is just getting ideas down. The second is about structure and flow. The third is where I start fine-tuning individual lines. By the fourth and fifth, I'm changing single words, adjusting rhythms, making tiny tweaks that nobody else might notice but that make all the difference.
The hardest part is knowing when to stop. You can edit a song to death, polishing all the life out of it. I've learned to trust my gut—when a song makes me feel something every time I play it, even after the hundredth time, it's probably done.
Collaboration and Ego Death
Writing with other people is terrifying and wonderful. It's also completely different from writing alone. You have to be willing to kill your darlings in real-time, to watch someone else transform your precious words into something you didn't expect.
My first co-write was a disaster. I was too attached to every line, too protective of my "vision." Now, some of my best songs have come from collaboration, from the magic that happens when two or more minds bounce ideas around.
The trick is going in with an open mind and checking your ego at the door. Your co-writer isn't attacking your baby when they suggest changes; they're trying to help it grow. Some of my favorite lines in songs I've co-written aren't mine at all.
The Technology Question
We need to talk about AI and songwriting tools. They're everywhere now, and yes, they can help with rhymes or suggest chord progressions or whatever. But here's my possibly controversial take: they're making a lot of songs worse.
Not because AI is inherently bad, but because it's too easy to let it do the thinking for you. The struggle, the searching for the right word, the happy accidents that come from mishearing your own mumbled melody—that's where the magic lives. When you shortcut that process, you might get a competent song, but you rarely get a great one.
Use technology as a tool, not a crutch. I use voice memos obsessively, and I've written entire songs in the notes app on my phone. But the real work still happens in that messy, human space between your heart and your head.
Playing for the Back Row
Here's something I learned from playing live: songs that work in your bedroom don't always work on stage. The best songs have what I call "back row energy"—they communicate even to someone who can't hear every word perfectly.
This doesn't mean dumbing down your lyrics. It means making sure your emotional intent is clear, that the shape of your melody reinforces your message, that your chorus hits hard enough to cut through the noise of a crowded bar.
I test my songs by playing them for people while they're doing something else—cooking, driving, whatever. If they stop what they're doing to listen, I know I've got something.
The Vulnerability Trap
There's this idea that great songs have to be deeply personal, that you need to bleed on the page. Sometimes that's true. But vulnerability without craft is just diary entry. And craft without vulnerability is just clever wordplay.
The sweet spot is finding the universal in the personal. Yes, write about your specific pain or joy or confusion. But shape it in a way that lets other people see themselves in your story. That's when a song stops being about you and starts being about everyone who hears it.
Breaking Your Own Rules
After all this advice, here's the most important thing: every rule can be broken if you break it with intention. Some of the best songs in history violate every "rule" of good songwriting. But they work because the songwriter knew exactly what they were doing and why.
I wrote a song once that had no rhymes, no real melody, just spoken words over a guitar pattern. It shouldn't have worked. But for that particular story, that particular emotion, it was the only way to tell it.
The more you write, the more you'll develop an instinct for when to follow the rules and when to throw them out the window. Trust that instinct. It's smarter than any advice anyone can give you.
The Daily Practice
If you want to get better at writing songs, you have to write songs. Not think about writing songs. Not read about writing songs. Actually write them.
I try to write something every day, even if it's just a couple of lines. Most of it's garbage. But buried in that garbage are little gems—a turn of phrase, a melody fragment, an image that sticks. Those gems become songs.
Some days the writing flows. Some days it's like pulling teeth. Both are part of the process. The muse is real, but she's more likely to show up if you're already working when she arrives.
Final Thoughts (Or Why We Do This)
Writing songs is hard. It's vulnerable and frustrating and sometimes you'll write ten terrible songs before one good one appears. But when you nail it—when you find those perfect words that marry with the perfect melody and suddenly you're saying something true in a way nobody's said it before—there's nothing like it.
I still remember the first time someone told me one of my songs helped them through a hard time. That's why we do this. Not for fame or money (though those would be nice), but for that connection, that moment when your specific pain or joy becomes someone else's soundtrack.
So write. Write badly. Write often. Write when you don't feel like it. Write when inspiration strikes and when it doesn't. Because somewhere out there, someone needs to hear exactly what you have to say, in exactly the way only you can say it.
And remember: every songwriter you admire started with a blank page and no idea what came next. The only difference between them and you is that they kept writing.
Authoritative Sources:
Pattison, Pat. Writing Better Lyrics: The Essential Guide to Powerful Songwriting. 2nd ed., Writer's Digest Books, 2009.
Webb, Jimmy. Tunesmith: Inside the Art of Songwriting. Hyperion, 1998.
Zollo, Paul. Songwriters on Songwriting. 4th ed., Da Capo Press, 2003.
Davis, Sheila. The Craft of Lyric Writing. Writer's Digest Books, 1985.
Braheny, John. The Craft and Business of Songwriting. 3rd ed., Writer's Digest Books, 2006.