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Array
(
[sid] => 109295
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => He
[time] => 2005-11-08 08:56:11
[hometext] => i have had some tecnical problems with my Pc and my pass word so i am starting again. Ppaul is no more!
[bodytext] => He is a Rolling Stone, He has a home He likes to ramble, He likes to roam He has got a deep voice of nails and an orchestra in his pocket He wrote the greatest song in the world and then forgot it He rides the night bus with his personal stereo turned high He is a friend to the charity case, the unsure diplomat, the ones with the far a way look in there eyes He has honest eyes but His smile can lie He makes the rounds but wonders why His boots were brought for walking but his hair dose all the talking He is a tipsy gypsy but He is not lipsy He has the Rainbow behind the locked door in the back of his mind If He could find the key He could change the course of time He has visited the slum, looked out from the dock He has walked twenty miles of bad road hanging on to a solid rock He is very well read it is well known He stays up late to hear the tongues of angels, He hears dead voices screaming down broken megaphones His mind creates but his creations make him sick He tries to touch people but flinches when they touch him Searching endless for the perfect companion But never can He reconcile his visions to the canyon Constantly searching He has had his mind blown apart and put back together A regular tourist but always a stranger to the within He feels like his own twin He has got parents who trust He wonders why, it must be a must He is a sad eyed poet who plays the fool Everywhere He goes people tell him ‘You’re cool’ He looks them straight in the eyes but more and more it becomes a chore As He stands to one side and looks across the flashing floor Man of the streets, feels safe when he’s inside Sometimes the suns to bright for his eyes The cold wind pleasing, the icy rain teasing He is a wild Dancer in the silence of the night when everyone’s leaving He can snarl like a tiger, snap like a trap but his sarcasm always betrays misgivings He stops and looks up to the sky while everyone walks by and thinks he sees a comet A wander, a plunderer, a squanderer who believes all things to be sacred He closes his eyes and sees bliss opens them up looks around and sees the pit Now exchanging his mask for face paint, checks his watch and walks a ragged mile to wait Dark eyes, psychedelic shirts and leather coats He ain’t there, He is here, He spits and He swallows as He floats You see the turmoil around you and remember something you heard You want to tell everybody but you can’t find the words He’s everything I want to be and everything I don’t Forget him? I won’t [comments] => 1 [counter] => 162 [topic] => 21 [informant] => PLformalyknownasPpaul [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 3 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => Lifepoems )
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