HOW I GOT HERE

It started at sixteen with a poem written on a bathroom wall and Bob Dylan's "Like a Rolling Stone" playing in his father's car at a laundromat in Danversport, Massachusetts. Those two things — a rebellious impulse to put words somewhere they did not belong, and the realization that song lyrics could be literature — wired Tom Jensen for the rest of his life.

He grew up absorbing the sixties rock greats: Dylan, Beatles, Led Zeppelin, The Who, Crosby Stills Nash & Young. At the same time he was deep into hip-hop — NWA, Tupac, Ice Cube. The fusion of those two worlds — the literary depth of rock and the raw directness of rap — became the DNA of everything he would eventually write.

High school was a process. Tom went to Saint John's Prep in Danvers where he was an outsider. He transferred to Lynnfield High School, got in shape, ran cross country, and found his footing. A girl he admired in his junior year made him want to become a better version of himself. That motivation stuck.

He went to Framingham State University, struggled academically but thrived socially. He lost his driver's license for a poor decision, which paradoxically pushed him into serious writing — working construction and going to night school at Salem State, filling notebooks in the landscaping truck between jobs. He graduated at twenty-five, going nights and working days, after a few false starts.

He made some choices during those years that were not good for him. He got into some habits he had to climb out of. He cleaned himself up and committed. The fork in the road came when he had a journalism deadline and a poem in his head at the same time. He chose the poem. He never looked back.

At thirty, Tom was on YouTube posting lyric videos and attracting musicians from around the world to collaborate with him. He built ten thousand subscribers. He was making songs, building momentum, well on his way.

Then a collaborator named Justin [surname withheld] told him to check out a channel called Lady Weaver. He did. What he found there were the greatest songs he had ever heard — a Danish musician who was, in his estimation, the best singer and songwriter alive. He described her as the female John Lennon, Susanna Hoffs in her prime. He reached out. They became close. He dedicated years to understanding her music, supporting her work, and being a consistent presence in her life.

He went to Denmark and lived there for three months. It did not work out romantically, but the connection was deep and real. He spent what he estimates as months of his life writing to her — letters he considers his best work, still sitting in her email inbox. The relationship shaped everything that came after.

He came back from Denmark crushed. For the next fifteen years, most things stalled. He withdrew from the world, stopped socializing, and deleted his YouTube channels — ten thousand subscribers, all the music, all the songs, gone. He stepped away from everything he had been building.

Then, in 2022 or 2023, he got an email from Lady Weaver's mother. She had died of cancer. She left behind a young adult son and children with her fiancé. She left quietly, without nearly enough notice.

That was the biggest loss of his lifetime. She was the greatest person he had ever met. The grief took time. But eventually it became the fuel for everything he is building now — the free lyric model, the community platform, the entire Collabtunes project. If one thing comes from all of this, let it be that the world finally hears her music.

Four or five years ago, Tom came back to life. He got a steady job doing maintenance, cleared his head, and started rebuilding. He reconnected with the catalog. He got serious about the website. He started building toward something.

He now lives with a roommate who has become his closest collaborator — his opposite in every way, but a perfect complement. Together they are what Tom calls the Army of Two. His roommate handles logistics, photography, errands, and the practical side of things. Tom handles the creative vision, the words, and the direction. They work as a unit.

There is also a three-year-old black cat who wants a yard.

Thirty years of writing produced 434 songs organized into 34 albums. The albums range in tone, theme, and content rating from G all the way to X. Over 120 of those songs have already been recorded by musicians from around the world — China, Denmark, and everywhere in between. This is not theory. It is already happening.

The business model is non-exploitative by design. Tom's lyrics are free to use — take them, set them to music, record them, release them. The only requirement is attribution. Whatever you build on top of his words, you own. The blockchain tracks every contribution, every contributor, every layer of creation. Bottom-up profit. That is the rule.

The vision is a live venue running four nights a week — improv songwriting nights, live audiences, an online community participating in real time. Scalable from seventy-five people in a small room to tens of thousands online. No private equity. No board of directors. No shareholder ownership. Trust-based, fan-first, built to last.

Tom is a free agent until September 1st. The catalog opens up on that date — all 434 lyrics available for anyone to use. A 35th album has not been written yet. That one gets sold to the highest bidder when the time comes.

What he needs: an investor, a venue, a CEO, healthcare, a weekly salary.

What he wants: enough to not worry. A house with a yard. His cat outside in the sun.