Latest quotes | Random quotes | Vote! | Latest comments | Add quote

I'm Dead (But I Don't Know It Yet)

All these baby-boomer musicians are out there, and no one's leaving the stage. We're able to stick around because there's this big bulge of 52-year-olds in the population. People are still sort of interested in Joni Mitchell and Bob Dylan and me. But it's only because there's so many of us. Until we start to die off, there's going to be this giant cloud hanging over the rest of the population. Newsweek will start running articles like,

song performed by Randy NewmanReport problemRelated quotes
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

Related quotes

Getting Away From All These....

so many rules, and so many changes
and we who are foolish enough are tracking
each nuance,
each abrupt change, each newly built sandcastle
which from time to time
the waves destroy
and we like Sisyphus enduring
keeps on reconstructing every rock rolled and then in place

this is our business
doing and undoing, remembering and forgetting
round and round
that eternal circle of
joy and happiness, of searching and finding

there is a way somehow
to get away

but i shall be doing it with you
i am half of you
i shall be an eye to your body
you are my arm to my hands
you are my mouth to my tongue

after we get away from all these structures
when we are finally free
we shall see, if by then, we be on each own
finding our own paths
to our defined bliss.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

Out Back

The old year went, and the new returned, in the withering weeks of drought,
The cheque was spent that the shearer earned,
and the sheds were all cut out;
The publican's words were short and few,
and the publican's looks were black --
And the time had come, as the shearer knew, to carry his swag Out Back.

For time means tucker, and tramp you must,
where the scrubs and plains are wide,
With seldom a track that a man can trust, or a mountain peak to guide;
All day long in the dust and heat -- when summer is on the track --
With stinted stomachs and blistered feet,
they carry their swags Out Back.

He tramped away from the shanty there, when the days were long and hot,
With never a soul to know or care if he died on the track or not.
The poor of the city have friends in woe, no matter how much they lack,
But only God and the swagmen know how a poor man fares Out Back.

He begged his way on the parched Paroo and the Warrego tracks once more,
And lived like a dog, as the swagmen do, till the Western stations shore;
But men were many, and sheds were full, for work in the town was slack --
The traveller never got hands in wool,
though he tramped for a year Out Back.

In stifling noons when his back was wrung
by its load, and the air seemed dead,
And the water warmed in the bag that hung to his aching arm like lead,
Or in times of flood, when plains were seas,
and the scrubs were cold and black,
He ploughed in mud to his trembling knees, and paid for his sins Out Back.

He blamed himself in the year `Too Late' --
in the heaviest hours of life --
'Twas little he dreamed that a shearing-mate had care of his home and wife;
There are times when wrongs from your kindred come,
and treacherous tongues attack --
When a man is better away from home, and dead to the world, Out Back.

And dirty and careless and old he wore, as his lamp of hope grew dim;
He tramped for years till the swag he bore seemed part of himself to him.
As a bullock drags in the sandy ruts, he followed the dreary track,
With never a thought but to reach the huts when the sun went down Out Back.

It chanced one day, when the north wind blew
in his face like a furnace-breath,
He left the track for a tank he knew -- 'twas a short-cut to his death;
For the bed of the tank was hard and dry, and crossed with many a crack,
And, oh! it's a terrible thing to die of thirst in the scrub Out Back.

A drover came, but the fringe of law was eastward many a mile;
He never reported the thing he saw, for it was not worth his while.
The tanks are full and the grass is high in the mulga off the track,
Where the bleaching bones of a white man lie
by his mouldering swag Out Back.

For time means tucker, and tramp they must,
where the plains and scrubs are wide,
With seldom a track that a man can trust, or a mountain peak to guide;
All day long in the flies and heat the men of the outside track
With stinted stomachs and blistered feet
must carry their swags Out Back.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

All These Poems About Poems

All these poems about poems
Where do they lead?

The world is so rich in so many other things
Write poems about them.

At twilight I look out
At strangers walking
To do their errands of preparation
for Sukkot.

A poem should have some Beauty in it
And not just be an effort at recording observations-

The scarlet bright flowers rage at me from the distance
I cannot translate their Beauty to words -

There is so much I have seen
And so much I will never write –
And so many Poems beyond my Imagination.

All these poems about my failing at poetry
And about translating the Beauty of the world to words-

This is a poem I not know how to properly finish.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

Healing The Family Tree

for you to let me know
that i must pay for all that the family owed
from the past
the suffering souls of my great fathers
and fathers of my fathers
and their mothers
i am sorry but i was not the one
that committed the blunder
that is their business and mine is different
look at me
have i not suffered enough to deserve all these
genetic retaliations?
hold my hands
don't you feel that all these tremblings
in fear
are not enough to pay for their
misdeeds?
your paranoia is mine too.

but somehow, all these must be stopped.
the wombs of our mothers are tested with pain
one leg to life the other held by death
yet they walk this valley of death without question
they breathe your air without suspicion
they live the way they ought to
and they die
without much ado.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

Outback

The old year went, and the new returned, in the withering weeks of drought,
The cheque was spent that the shearer earned,
and the sheds were all cut out;
The publican's words were short and few,
and the publican's looks were black --
And the time had come, as the shearer knew, to carry his swag Out Back.

For time means tucker, and tramp you must,
where the scrubs and plains are wide,
With seldom a track that a man can trust, or a mountain peak to guide;
All day long in the dust and heat -- when summer is on the track --
With stinted stomachs and blistered feet,
they carry their swags Out Back.

He tramped away from the shanty there, when the days were long and hot,
With never a soul to know or care if he died on the track or not.
The poor of the city have friends in woe, no matter how much they lack,
But only God and the swagmen know how a poor man fares Out Back.

He begged his way on the parched Paroo and the Warrego tracks once more,
And lived like a dog, as the swagmen do, till the Western stations shore;
But men were many, and sheds were full, for work in the town was slack --
The traveller never got hands in wool,
though he tramped for a year Out Back.

In stifling noons when his back was wrung
by its load, and the air seemed dead,
And the water warmed in the bag that hung to his aching arm like lead,
Or in times of flood, when plains were seas,
and the scrubs were cold and black,
He ploughed in mud to his trembling knees, and paid for his sins Out Back.

He blamed himself in the year `Too Late' --
in the heaviest hours of life --
'Twas little he dreamed that a shearing-mate had care of his home and wife;
There are times when wrongs from your kindred come,
and treacherous tongues attack --
When a man is better away from home, and dead to the world, Out Back.

And dirty and careless and old he wore, as his lamp of hope grew dim;
He tramped for years till the swag he bore seemed part of himself to him.
As a bullock drags in the sandy ruts, he followed the dreary track,
With never a thought but to reach the huts when the sun went down Out Back.

It chanced one day, when the north wind blew
in his face like a furnace-breath,
He left the track for a tank he knew -- 'twas a short-cut to his death;
For the bed of the tank was hard and dry, and crossed with many a crack,
And, oh! it's a terrible thing to die of thirst in the scrub Out Back.

A drover came, but the fringe of law was eastward many a mile;
He never reported the thing he saw, for it was not worth his while.
The tanks are full and the grass is high in the mulga off the track,
Where the bleaching bones of a white man lie
by his mouldering swag Out Back.

For time means tucker, and tramp they must,
where the plains and scrubs are wide,
With seldom a track that a man can trust, or a mountain peak to guide;
All day long in the flies and heat the men of the outside track
With stinted stomachs and blistered feet
must carry their swags Out Back.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

You ask me if I am sad…

I know why you are asking me if I am sad
Like Pablo Neruda I have written most of the sad lines
The saddest even if you paid
The closest attention

Sunset, dimming nature’s lights
Departure of my dearly beloved
Drying riverbeds, wilting vines on the fence
The well of the house that finally ran dry
The grass that promised to grow some flowers
The sadness of the eyes trying to hide in the curves of the smile
The breakfast on that lonely table
The river flowing all alone towards the sea
The birds stopping on this silent tunnel and then flying away

All these you have been reading
Every word seeping without a quiver in the bottom of your heart
They fall like dead leaves from trees without buds

The silent sands covering the shores of your memories
All these you have been seeing, figuring out
My sadness and perhaps from your sadness too you begin to ask
Why? What could be the reason for all these?

Tonight, I am looking at the moon
I am not looking at my wound
I have no quibble I am simply seeing things the way they are
I have no beginning and I have no end
I do not die; I only live every moment of my life
I may be shattered but I make myself whole again

Tonight, let us not ask the questions
Let us not care about the answers….

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

When will I be Loved

I’m in my late thirties now and in all these years I have never felt loved.
Which has me now asking the question when will I be loved?
Will I be loved before all my hair turns completely grey?
Will I be loved before the sun sets this very day?
When will I be loved?
Will I be loved while I can still remember what love means?
Will I be loved tonight while I dream?
When will I be loved?
At times love has seemed close enough that I could reach out and grab it, but as I reached I realized love was not as close as it seemed.
Love is my white whale and just like Ahab the chase is driving me mad.
When will I be loved?

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

I know you are out there

My days are passing by
My hairs are turning gray
I wait for you to come
On a blessed happy day
My smooth skin is wrinkling
Like a crumpled paper
My hopes are vanishing
Like camphor in the air
My beauty is fading
Like a drying up rose
My dreams are being shattered
By rebuff's tornadoes
It makes me hot-tempered
Like a lion of zoo
I know you are out there
Why don't you want me too?

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

The World Out There....

i look at the room
where we once shared
happiness,
it is the same room
now
that shall make us live
the
season of
sadness,

nothing's changed
nothing will be changed here

white walls,
white tiled floors
same fluorescent tube
same switch
on the frame
of the door

the cabinets are still brown
though not glossy
with age

how many years?
20 years
swift as the flight of
seagulls

white winged birds on
sky blue seas

the matrimonial
bed is losing
its soft cushion

our backs endured all these
roughness now
when we make no more
demands
for life to give us
more

ah, how many years more?
i do not need much
5 can be a surplus

what do i need
of 10 years more?

i am a simple man
willing to explore
what lies in the unknown

this present
is all revealed and i
am satisfied,

there is more out there
the stars are not
telling

the moon is still secretive
to the
bounty of calm
and beauty

i shall be there
in due time
without you.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

How Many Women Are Out There?

How many women are out there,
That are looking for a man?
That would fight for what he believes in,
And would do whatever he can.

How many women are out there,
That wish that they could find?
A man that looks at future.
Not the things that are left behind.

How many women are out there,
That seek a man who's true?
When the situation arises,
It's the right thing he will do.

How many women are out there,
Looking for a man with determined heart?
To change the things he needs to change,
To make a brand new start.

How many women are out there,
That are looking for a friend?
One that would always be there for you.
On him you could depend.

How many women are out there,
That are looking for a lover?
To hold you hand when you walk around,
And hold your heart under the covers.

How many women are out there,
Think this man does not exist?
A figment of your imagination.
Is it one you can't resist?

How many women are out there,
That this is your desire?
This is the man you're seeking.
The one who'll light your fire.

How many women are out there,
They think that this man could be?
I'll let you know he does exist.
That man is simply me.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share
Patrick White

For All The Seers And Seekers Out There

For all the seers and seekers out there,
all you bright seeds on a blind wind
looking for a vision of life you can root in
and express yourselves like willows in the moonlight
to the night creek nearby that listens
when you cry out in mystical bliss
at the surprise of waterlilies gathered at your feet
to catch a taste of the same essence that makes you weep,
deep inside, inside, inside, look there for paradise,
where the stars are dazzled by your eyes
that don't fade away in the blazing like Venus at dusk.

Looking for the spirit with the spirit
like a breathless wind looking for the wind
to give it mouth to mouth resuscitation
is a snake with its tail in its mouth
enchained to its own liberation.
Is a candle in the sun living on borrowed light
when it's already well-provisioned with its own shining
for the long nights in the heart
of an unknown radiance within?
Long nights on the high slopes
of the world mountain you're sitting on alone
like a pauper with kingly second thoughts
about abdicating the ancestral throne of your ego.

For you who are not stuck
like a false idol the size of your thumb
through a three and a half pound brain of starmud.

For you who are not voidbound by your freedom,
or cower in the shadows of your solitude
afraid to read the messages that flower under your doorsill
from anonymous admirers passing in the hall.

For those of you who learned to read and write
in an alphabet of loveletters waiting for a reply
that could answer them all like a return address on the silence.

For you who have taken the splinters of a shattered mirror
out of your eye and replaced them with stars
that have gone on giving light long after
the chandeliers of light-winged sorrows
have stopped waltzing in three four time with their
club-footed candles for the night.

Follow this goat bell up the high dangerous trails
where even overcoming your fear of heights
isn't enough courage to guarantee your footing
and I'll show you the jewelled hoofs of the wild horses
kicking up the dust of stars on the open plains
of an inconceivable spiritual vastness where wishes are horses
and beggars do ride and you can hear the jingling
of constellations like the wind-chimes of Spanish spurs
that get under your skin where the spiritual junkies shoot up
like selflessly motivated thorns of starlight
potent enough to keep them high for the rest of the lives
on the antidote they derive like the milk of human kindness
even from the toxic serums of the most dangerous mystical snakes
that have ever poled danced like a winged caduceus
around the axis of the most habitable planet you've ever been inclined to.

Whether you're a blissed-out gardenia of God
or just another double agent doing espionage for the Devil
to see when the next whirlwind of revelation
is going to sweep you up like a chimney spark
into a maelstrom of cosmic events against your will,
look at how the radiance shining out
from the clear void of an unknown light source deep within you
illuminates heaven like the moon in your window
as surely and truly as it does the prophetic skulls of hell.

And this is the point I've been missing
and trying to make simultaneously throughout this poem
like a tattoo starred on my forehead
that leads me like a lantern into deeper and darker spaces
than any abandoned shrine in a sacred wood
I've ever existed in before like a swallow
among the quake-proof columns of the trees.

We're all three-winged songbirds under the leaf-cluttered eaves
of the temples we brought with us like spiritual refugees
overstepping the bounds and borders of ourselves
like prodigal sons and daughters on the thresholds of exile.

And each of us weaves, after our own fashion,
on a loom of lunar wavelengths of shadows and light,
a crown of thorns we leave with wings
like the mangers of the earthbound killdeer and English skylarks
after we've cracked the koans
of the cosmic eggs we were born from.

We fly away home like ladybirds and dragonflies
whose house is on fire and kids are alone
to have it burned into us like a prison tattoo
that enlightenment is just as white
on the dark side, as it is black on the light.

And though you were to look like billions of fireflies
for millions of lightyears, you'll never find enlightenment
up ahead of you because it will never be found
anywhere other than behind and beside you
where it's always been from the beginningless beginning
like a shadow that's been following you
on the blind side of your third eye that set out
the moment it first opened up to you like a flower to the stars
to look for the other two like a shepherd
looking for lost goats on the altars
of the unblooded sacrificial mountains of the moon.

You just have to look at the stars
and feel them staring back at you on the inside
with the same inconceivable wonder at why and what you are
as you return the light that was given to you back to them
realizing every insight into the nature of life,
every word, every star, every bird, firefly, every
lighthouse and clocktower of the moon
is a sign of mutual greeting that can't be ignored.

For those of you who cry for the earth that is moved
by the same agony you are, as if you were born
to be its tears, its wounds, its scars,
to suffer like flowers for the beauty you aspire to.

For those of you whose seeing
will become the substance of the world tomorrow
though you should lose your eyes for it today
like apple-bloom, for the sake of the root of the light within.

For those of you who are always seeking
the things that belong to all of us, the dreams
the visions, the insights, the perfect expression
of what we have to say to the silence
that's always listening to us
talking to ourselves like a sleepwalking stream
or a wild grapevine putting out tendrils
like Korans of Kufic script and Books of harvest Kells.

May your labour come to love you like a bad habit
that's grown fond of you over the years
because you made an art of your life
that brought the merciless desert to tears
to see how even a delusion or a mirage
with a big enough heart and a taste for compassion
that gives it an eye for how sublime beauty really is
as deep as the watershed at the bottom of a wishing well
it turned into the moment it cried on behalf
of everyone's efforts to make themselves
in all the glory of their schemes, dreams and delusions
streaming out behind them in victory parades
put on by their own minds
like the emperor's non-existent clothes
for knowing how to turn a defeat into a celebration,
come true to life. The seeking life. The seeing life.

The just life like dry oak on a good fire.
The life of thought that eventually forgets
what there is to think about. The wasted life
whose gifts were mistaken for flaws in its character,
The anonymous life of a spiritual blood donor
that sent a single red rose to a dead child
and restored her back to life. Life returning to life
like crocuses and killer whales through the ice,
seeking itself out in every corner of our lives,
and under the stones of our own starmud minds
lodged in the earth like meteorites
that once flashed across the sky like insight
from an unknown radiant i
in the eye sockets of prophetic skulls
as if strange new life forms were going on in there
it knew nothing about and was dying to see.
And who knows? Maybe even something
unspeakably precious it thought was lost for good.

And most especially a life that feels life
has shapeshifted it into the dupe of its own ideals,
that all its disguises and deathmasks were removed
like painful tattoos only to reveal a rodeo clown
dressed in a barrel with a red poppy for a cape in its hat
to draw the bull away from the rider that's down.

To feel like a clown in all your actions
to judge by the crowd's reactions,
but to put your life on the line anyway
as a funny kind of sacrifice that saves the hero
you risked as much to rescue, as he did
to put you in harm's way when he faltered.

And you embodied the human condition with compassion,
running away as a way of coming to the rescue,
without realizing, as you laughed at yourself,
it doesn't get anymore divine than that.
Trying to get a smile out of the bull
you're running before on someone else's behalf
in a funny hat with an artificial flower
is a sublime act of devotion
and the truest form of worship
from the human divinity in each of us to another.

Because getting up after life's been struck to its knees,
is how everything grows, even when its roots
are watered by delusions and its butt gets kicked up
into the grandstands of the amused demons and angels,
that funny little dejected flower in a rodeo clown's hat
that steals the show like the Buddha's purse
to buy the Buddha a horse to get back up on,
regardless of what you, the bull, the Buddha,
his purse, the horse or the thrown rider feel,
still blossoms from the heart it's rooted in for real.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

Going Out There Is No Other

Going out there is no other
coming back there is no trace
though one journey on forever
still the mind is its own place.

Still erecting fences facing
(still incorporating doors)
still vast nothingness embracing
(and declining ‘mine’ and ‘yours’) .

Still the sun in silent splendour
smiles its message through the Void
that each and every golden sunbeam
suffers where it has enjoyed.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

It's Dark Out There

So what did you expect?
It's dark out there,
And cold.
Outer space is very, very cold.

Suns are good for light,
But they blow up,
Or implode.

It's dark out there,
So man worked with fire,
Then electricity,
But critics call their methods of creating light evil.

Folks don't like monopolies,
Even making light has dark tendencies
Moralistically,
But what are you going to do,
People are scared of the dark.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

All our morning glory days are done

All our morning glory days are done
just like the flowers
that you made me rip out
from where they grew
towering under the sun.

The garden is empty
and stripped of the violet flowers
that grew everywhere
and I am no longer there

and wonder if the geraniums,
irises, marigolds, white lilies,
red roses and lavender
are still being watered

or is every thing in your life
just fading away
into death
with the falling leaves
of this autumn?

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

Out There, A Mishap

out there is a crowd of people
motorcars stop and the blinking of the ambulance
look like the eyes of a frightened child,

two motorbikes collide at top speed
two bodies lie bloody on the road
pictures are taken
no one touches the placement of the broken glass
the stains of blood on the leather seat

another mishap
another realization that death comes
when you least expect it

i lock the door of the car that i am driving
i swear i do not want to have any involvement in this
i take speed and dissolve in the dark distance.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

Out There' And In Number

There are those who believe,
They can do as they please.
Even expressing disrespect,
In everything they do...
That might cause others to get upset.

And expect these people do,
To be forgiven.
After an apology has been delivered.
With attempts to blame...
Every aspect of their nonsense,
On a childhood lived.

This explanation may include...
Negligent parents.
Or an overprotective smothering done.
Or pets that created their allergies.

Or...
Ancestors who infected the family bloodline,
By not using Food and Drug Administration approved...
Pesticides,
On homegrown vegetables.

And this left a scar that tormented,
By the acknowledgement...
Of those vegetable not being totally fresh and organic.

Hey...
These folks are 'out there'.
And in number!

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

Out There In The Wide Country

Out there in the wide country like a small speck in the sky
The small brown skylark is carolling as upwards he does fly
On a warm day in October with a beautiful Spring breeze
With temperatures near perfect around 23 degrees,
October in Victoria in the woodland all the day
The gray shrike thrush is whistling in his cloak of brown and gray
And the white backed magpie is fluting upon the gray gum tree
And the magpie lark is singing pee wee pee wee pee wee
And the kookaburras laughter is ringing loud and clear
Out there in the wide country them one so often hear,
Out there in the wide country the wildflowers are in bloom
And the woods and paddocks scenting of Nature's sweet perfume
And the temperature is perfect days such as this are rare
And the nesting birds are singing and Spring is in the air.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

4 All The Women/girls Out There!

a women.
delicate.
strong.
beautiful.

she can tease.
she can smile.
she can do such harm that makes us men kneel down and bow.
lol
of course all girls wants to be the princess in their mans heart.
always wanting the attention they can never get.
but only a girl with honor, integrity, and patient's
will be the most beautiful girl of all.

im saying not all women arent beautiful.
they all are.
just different ways of showing.

a womens humor.
a womens passion.
their every move
is unique
also extraordinary.

every women got a way to cast a spell on a guy.
something bout each women keeps a guy going back.
and wanting more.
and if your a women reading this. no! not that.
i mean for you.
wanting you.
for your personality.
the way you smile.
the way you cry.
the way you laugh and dance.

this is for all the women out there who thinks they are not good enough, or thinks they are ugly. your not ugly! ! !
i know that everyone has an ugly side. but look deep in yourself and you will find,
a beautiful soul ready to blossom...

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

I Know You're Out There Somewher

(Justin Hayward)
I know you're out there somewhere
Somewhere somewhere
I know I'll find you somewhere
And somehow I'll return again to you
The mist is lifting slowly
I can see the way ahead
And I've left behind the empty streets
That once inspired my life
And the strength of the emotion
Is like thunder in the air
'Cos the promise that we made each other
Haunts me to the end
CHORUS
I know you're out there somewhere
Somewhere somewhere
I know you're out there somewhere
Somewhere you can hear my voice
I know I'll find you somehow
Somehow somehow
I know I'll find you somehow
And somehow I'll return again to you
The secret of your beauty
And the mystery of your soul
I've been searching for in everyone I meet
And the times I've been mistaken
It's impossible to say
And the grass is growing
Underneath our feet
CHORUS
The words that I remember
>From my childhood still are true
That there's none so blind
As those who will not see
And to those who lack the courage
And say it's dangerous to try
Well they just don't know
That love eternal will not be denied
CHORUS
You know it's going to happen
I can feel you getting near
And soon we'll be returning
To the fountains of our youth
And if you wake up wondering
In the darkness I'll be there
My arms will close around you
And protect you with the truth
CHORUS
----------------------------------------------

song performed by Moody BluesReport problemRelated quotes
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

I Know Youre Out There Somewhere

I know youre out there somewhere
Somewhere, somewhere
I know Ill find you somehow
Somehow, somehow
And somehow Ill return again to you
The mist is lifting slowly
I can see the way ahead
And Ive left behind the empty streets
That once inspired my life
And the strength of the emotion
Is like thunder in the air
cos the promise that we made each other
Haunts me to the end
I know youre out there somewhere
Somewhere, somewhere
I know youre out there somewhere
Somewhere you can hear my voice
I know Ill find you somehow
Somehow, somehow
I know Ill find you somehow
And somehow Ill return again to you
The secret of your beauty
And the mystery of your soul
Ive been searching for in everyone I meet
And the times Ive been mistaken
Its impossible to say
And the grass is growing
Underneath our feet
I know youre out there somewhere
Somewhere, somewhere
I know youre out there somewhere
Somewhere you can hear my voice
I know Ill find you somehow
Somehow, somehow
I know Ill find you somehow
And somehow Ill return again to you
From the words that I remember
From my childhood still are true
That theres none so blind
As those who will not see
And to those who lack the courage
And say its dangerous to try
Well they just dont know
That love eternal will not be denied
I know youre out there somewhere
Somewhere, somewhere
I know youre out there somewhere
Somewhere you can hear my voice
I know Ill find you somehow
Somehow, somehow
I know Ill find you somehow
And somehow Ill return again to you
Yes I know its going to happen
I can feel you getting near
And soon well be returning
To the fountain of our youth
And if you wake up wondering
In the darkness Ill be there
My arms will close around you
And protect you with the truth
I know youre out there somewhere
Somewhere, somewhere
I know youre out there somewhere
Somewhere you can hear my voice
I know Ill find you somehow
Somehow, somehow
I know Ill find you somehow
And somehow Ill return again to you

song performed by Moody BluesReport problemRelated quotes
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share
 

Search


Recent searches | Top searches