Not to be forced but of course we already knew the ending came before the start. I walk the Hampstead streets, the cobbled stoned walls and floors I’ve been here before,
sip on mint Moroccan tea, just me, and these thoughts and memories that lunge and plunge and take over my being, we remain in the present I am here now and you’re there and as bare as the way our bodies lay together I remember that the hardest part was leaving you. There is a purpose are reason is it treason if I see another girl and wander what it would be like to know her on a level as intimate and delicate as the way we were so many time before? These buses and streets and alley ways and lane ways, the travelling and pondering and this heart beats too my dear it beats for the return of that time we were one spirit dignified and personified into one aura of delight and as these thoughts take flight on another journey that swoops across my mind again, I pretend that tomorrow you may come into my work or just might be waiting for me to come home, and home is a notion that loses its meaning, everyday that I’m away, I just want to be strong to align the lines that aren’t aligned and through all this I might find exactly what you really mean to me let it be, now just let it be and we’ll see if its all fate, your voice on the phone, its so unique and I’ve never really been alone, so alone I stand and alone I walk through these Hampstead streets, isolated and dissipated, the old man in the second hand bookstore, he smells of stale air and unshaven madness but he knows every book in its disordered state and I wait for the words of writers that carved paths in my psyche, that paved the way for me to attain something that meant more then myself, and as your voice resonates through the metal phone I place to my ear, I hear your voice and say to you what I’m feeling, you know me, you understand the depths of these words and in turn I will open up to you when the timing is right, now this de-ja vu’ that walks through walls and clouds to find me I see that after all this time it was always you that cared and spared the time to make me realise that life can be what we want it to be, we must stand and fight the battle its never easy and every feeling we have ever felt has been felt before, every situation that seems to have no conclusion its been felt somewhere else and in the context of my life my worries are insignificant as opposed to somewhere and someone else right now. I was never a weekend poet just a man with words on his mind, I sit now above the Indian restaurant and the London blue sky spells out you name in vain time and time again…..
sip on mint Moroccan tea, just me, and these thoughts and memories that lunge and plunge and take over my being, we remain in the present I am here now and you’re there and as bare as the way our bodies lay together I remember that the hardest part was leaving you. There is a purpose are reason is it treason if I see another girl and wander what it would be like to know her on a level as intimate and delicate as the way we were so many time before? These buses and streets and alley ways and lane ways, the travelling and pondering and this heart beats too my dear it beats for the return of that time we were one spirit dignified and personified into one aura of delight and as these thoughts take flight on another journey that swoops across my mind again, I pretend that tomorrow you may come into my work or just might be waiting for me to come home, and home is a notion that loses its meaning, everyday that I’m away, I just want to be strong to align the lines that aren’t aligned and through all this I might find exactly what you really mean to me let it be, now just let it be and we’ll see if its all fate, your voice on the phone, its so unique and I’ve never really been alone, so alone I stand and alone I walk through these Hampstead streets, isolated and dissipated, the old man in the second hand bookstore, he smells of stale air and unshaven madness but he knows every book in its disordered state and I wait for the words of writers that carved paths in my psyche, that paved the way for me to attain something that meant more then myself, and as your voice resonates through the metal phone I place to my ear, I hear your voice and say to you what I’m feeling, you know me, you understand the depths of these words and in turn I will open up to you when the timing is right, now this de-ja vu’ that walks through walls and clouds to find me I see that after all this time it was always you that cared and spared the time to make me realise that life can be what we want it to be, we must stand and fight the battle its never easy and every feeling we have ever felt has been felt before, every situation that seems to have no conclusion its been felt somewhere else and in the context of my life my worries are insignificant as opposed to somewhere and someone else right now. I was never a weekend poet just a man with words on his mind, I sit now above the Indian restaurant and the London blue sky spells out you name in vain time and time again…..
