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Paul Barratt Poems
A memory lost. A tear forms, But I'm not sad. Sad of the loss
We are all just Just here looking all around Around the world, we have come Come to a land
By Your Side
Take pride, Take pride for a walk. Show it off, Show it everywhere,
Of light by day I see your beauty Of light by night I see your beauty Your beauty shines in your eyes Your beauty shines in side
Take time to really breath, your life depends upon it. Take time to really see,
LET it FLOW
The nature of rain remains the same. It grows thorns in the marshes, and flowers in the lane, And offers rainbows of beauty to ease the pain. As life's pot holes can seem to drive us insane,
Wanna look, I can hide Nowhere to run Run in my mind To look on the inside
I'll be back
why does the cloud in the sky pass you by when you can be looking down at the ground around at this time in your mind the past went so fast
Dear Book; The pages I see and the words I write seem to be only clear to me. What does it all mean that its a fine line to be with sanity or without. Does it seem that the world all wrong or is it all right.
when life gets u down and love is not around, think; your a long time gone where there is no frown, life is a gift you just have to unwrap it,
The world is our universe, So blue and deep so free. We are but a bubble unto thee. When we die our bubble will pop,
By My Side
When I hear you say goodbye It nearly makes me wanna cry Do you really need to know How much I love you so
A Picture of life
That certain thought of one. Dancing with excitement, darting with energy drawn and the spark goes on. Infinitely encompassing desire, yearning, striving as no-one has ever done. But looking all around, inwards, backwards, forwards, but for one.
Shiver me timbers Where has the world gone? Days of innocence, all but lost. There was no disgrace to be a certain race.
Comments about Paul Barratt
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
A memory lost.
A tear forms,
But I'm not sad.
Sad of the loss
Of time of limbo.
Do I or I don't remember?
The meaning, the loss.
What meaning? What loss?
Of the meaning of the memory,