Most lyrics aren’t bad. They just don’t belong to anyone.
I’ve been in sessions where we spend an hour on a chorus that sounds completely right — good melody, right sentiment — and then someone plays it back and goes “yeah but what is actually happening?” And there’s this pause. Because nothing is.
That’s the problem. Not the words. The absence of a moment.
Feelings without behaviour
Generic lyrics describe emotional states.
These aren’t wrong. They’re just interchangeable — they could be in anyone’s song.
The difference between generic and specific isn’t the emotion. It’s whether anything can be seen.
“I’m heartbroken”
versus
“I sat outside your house for an hour and didn’t go in”
One tells you the feeling. The other puts you inside it.
What specific lyrics actually look like
Generic:
“I miss you”
Specific:
“I still take the long way home past your street”
Generic:
“You don’t care anymore”
Specific:
“You read the message and changed the subject”
Generic:
“I can’t move on”
Specific:
“I deleted your number and memorised it anyway”
Same emotion each time. But now there’s something to remember.
Why specificity works (even when it feels too personal)
Most generic lyrics come from trying to be universal — stripping out the details so more people can connect. But that instinct backfires.
The more specific a lyric is, the more people see themselves in it. Because real experiences aren’t abstract. They’re a particular Tuesday. A particular text. A behaviour that only makes sense if you’ve felt that exact thing.
That specificity is what makes a stranger go “wait, that’s me.”
How to fix it
Don’t aim for better words. Aim for a clearer moment.
Ask yourself: what is the character doing? Where are they? Is there another person in the room? What would a camera see? That’s the scene test. If the answer is unclear, the line isn’t grounded yet — and rewriting the words won’t help.
Replace the feeling with the behaviour that proves it. If you need a constraint to force that switch, writing about furniture is a useful exercise. That’s where the lyric starts to be yours — and the emotional territory you keep returning to is also what makes a sound. Finding your sound as an artist starts with recognising that pattern in your own work.
The same principle applies to the hook: a hook that’s honest and specific earns its repetition in a way a catchy-but-vague one never can. And it starts with what happens in the verse. Both are specific jobs within a specific structure — the parts of a song explains what each section is supposed to be doing.
Once you’ve got music that’s specific enough to be worth finding, the question becomes how to get it in front of the right people — that’s what the complete music marketing guide covers.
If you’ve got lyrics that feel right but don’t quite land — a co-writing session is usually the fastest way to find out why. Reach out.
Generic lyrics describe emotional states — “I miss you”, “I can’t let go” — without placing the listener anywhere specific. The problem isn’t the words. It’s the absence of a moment. Replace the feeling with the behaviour that proves it: what is the character actually doing? Where are they? What can be seen?
Find the action that proves the feeling without stating it. “I miss you” becomes “I still take the long way home past your street.” Ask yourself: what did the person do? What would a camera see? That specificity is what makes a stranger recognise themselves in your song.
Yes — and the more personal and specific, the more universal the song tends to become. The instinct to strip out detail so more people can connect usually backfires. Real experiences aren’t abstract. The concrete detail is what makes a stranger say “wait, that’s me.”
Vague lyrics name the emotion. Specific lyrics show the behaviour that proves it. “You don’t care anymore” is vague. “You read the message and changed the subject” is specific — same situation, but now there’s something the listener can actually see and remember.