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Array
(
[sid] => 77470
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => A photo burnt long ago
[time] => 2004-12-28 00:25:58
[hometext] =>
[bodytext] => I am tired of writing that I am alone. I am not alone, nor have I ever been. It is beautiful to me, the sound of nothing but my breathing, or my own voice reading poetry no one will ever hear. I like to smoke a joint and whisper poems to myself like someone sleeping might hear if I raise my voice just a little bit. Like I could raise the dead; all I'd have to do is stand up and shout. I've never really screamed, never let my voice carry over a mass of noiseless, drunken crowds; I never let them know that i was there, that I was watching. I remember sitting by my best friend drinking a cheap bottle of wine like it was summer but it wasn't, like it was the last time I'd ever get to feel that quiet. That quiet that only a friend can give you, a quiet burned open in your laughter like you weren't laughing at all; like the last dead bum on Broadway singing his sad song for a quarter or fifty cents; that quiet you can feel when you've got somebody, when life is breathing down your neck and you've got it by the collar screaming at the top of your lungs that you are not sorry, that you are sick of being sorry; the quiet that is found when there is so much noise around you that you start feeling sick and your head starts spinning and you put your hands up and you close your eyes and you scream as loud as you possibly can, and everyone is screaming, and the screaming somehow becomes a song, just more twisted, thats all. I remember that day like it was a sweet dream a lover dreams the night before he meets her. Like it was a photo burnt long ago. [comments] => 2 [counter] => 219 [topic] => 48 [informant] => iodinelove [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 5 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => EmotionalPoetry )
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