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Array ( [sid] => 105155 [catid] => 1 [aid] => mick [title] => Nighteen Hundred Eighty [time] => 2005-09-06 12:36:09 [hometext] => *A poem for John Lennon.* I am extremely proud of this particular poem of mine. It expresses exactly what I wanted to say. [bodytext] => Our eyes never met, from across a room
nor up-close when talking,
and they never will.

I never held your hand, in handshake
nor through sought comfort,
and I never will.

Your voice becomes the ghost
that pervades my mind,
only prominent in music
and in various videos I may happen upon.

I’ve learned so many things about you:
from the good, and the bad.
The more I know,
the more I wish to desire find.

I’ve followed your career,
from Beatlemania to your solo days,
and loved every moment;
even through the controversies, I stood fast
always believing in you (and your fellows).

I saw you as a dreamer, like I see myself,
never quite following the crowd.
I saw you as a writer of nonsensical terms,
laughter being your sweet radical spice.

I knew as the one whom I could go to.
I’d pop in a one of your CDs,
and feel my sadness slowly slip away.
With music as amazing as yours, no wonder
it became the only thing that would bring me peace.

But one question still remains:
why did you have to leave so soon?
Why were you taken at all?
When there was no provocation,
then what could've been the reason?

Death was never an option this early on,
and murder was never a thing to worry over.
So no one even saw it coming.
With five cracks of a gun,
you reluctanly left us behind.

I wish I could find a plausible reason
for what had unjustly transpired,
but I have found none.
Only supremely stupid explanations remain:
because you were assumed a 'phony',
that word now being one of which I cannot stand.

Mourners stood in prayer at your wake,
each person being a someone you touched in someway.
All who ever loved you, came to say their goodbyes;
it was wonderful to see how much they cared.

To all who believe guns may solve our problems,
to those who think war may let us win:
just look at how beautiful minds lost to brutality;
all they can do
is to smile as they kill.
Can’t they see how stupid it all is?

You gave me the gift of partical sanity,
of which I could never fully grasp;
it was something no one else thought to provide.

It is for you that I cry,
these lost tears of turmoil,
and it is for you
that I grieve. [comments] => 0 [counter] => 178 [topic] => 55 [informant] => undead_poet14 [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => dedicatedpoems )

Nighteen Hundred Eighty

Contributed by undead_poet14 on Tuesday, 6th September 2005 @ 12:36:09 PM in AEST
Topic: dedicatedpoems

Our eyes never met, from across a room
nor up-close when talking,
and they never will.

I never held your hand, in handshake
nor through sought comfort,
and I never will.

Your voice becomes the ghost
that pervades my mind,
only prominent in music
and in various videos I may happen upon.

I’ve learned so many things about you:
from the good, and the bad.
The more I know,
the more I wish to desire find.

I’ve followed your career,
from Beatlemania to your solo days,
and loved every moment;
even through the controversies, I stood fast
always believing in you (and your fellows).

I saw you as a dreamer, like I see myself,
never quite following the crowd.
I saw you as a writer of nonsensical terms,
laughter being your sweet radical spice.

I knew as the one whom I could go to.
I’d pop in a one of your CDs,
and feel my sadness slowly slip away.
With music as amazing as yours, no wonder
it became the only thing that would bring me peace.

But one question still remains:
why did you have to leave so soon?
Why were you taken at all?
When there was no provocation,
then what could've been the reason?

Death was never an option this early on,
and murder was never a thing to worry over.
So no one even saw it coming.
With five cracks of a gun,
you reluctanly left us behind.

I wish I could find a plausible reason
for what had unjustly transpired,
but I have found none.
Only supremely stupid explanations remain:
because you were assumed a 'phony',
that word now being one of which I cannot stand.

Mourners stood in prayer at your wake,
each person being a someone you touched in someway.
All who ever loved you, came to say their goodbyes;
it was wonderful to see how much they cared.

To all who believe guns may solve our problems,
to those who think war may let us win:
just look at how beautiful minds lost to brutality;
all they can do
is to smile as they kill.
Can’t they see how stupid it all is?

You gave me the gift of partical sanity,
of which I could never fully grasp;
it was something no one else thought to provide.

It is for you that I cry,
these lost tears of turmoil,
and it is for you
that I grieve.

Copyright Â© undead_poet14 ... [ 2005-09-06 12:36:09]
(Date/Time posted on site)

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