I don't know what this is.
It's poems that I have written.
It's poems that I didn't write.
It's old poems.
It's new poems.
It's happy poems.
It's sad poems...
Actually, just mainly sad poems.
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Starry Starry night Paint your palette blue and grey
Look out on a summer's day With eyes that know the Darkness in my soul. Shadows on the hills Sketch the trees and the daffodils
Catch the breeze and the winter chills
In colors on the snowy linen land. And now I understand what you tried to say to me
How you suffered for your sanity How you tried to set them free. They would not listen They did not know how
Perhaps they'll listen now.
Starry Starry night Flaming flo'rs that brightly blaze
Swirling clouds in violet haze reflect in Vincent's eyes of China blue. Colors changing hue Morning fields of amber grain
Weathered faces lined in pain Are soothed beneath the artist's Loving hand. And now I understand what you tried to say to me
How you suffered for your sanity How you tried to set them free. Perhaps they'll listen now.
For they could not love you But still your love was true
And when no hope was left in sight on that starry Starry night. You took your life As lovers often do; But I could have told you Vincent This world was never Meant for one As beautiful as you.
Starry Starry night Portraits hung in empty halls
Frameless heads on nameless walls With eyes That watch the world and can't forget. Like the stranger that you've met
The ragged men in ragged clothes
The silver thorn of bloody rose Lie crushed and broken On the virgin snow. And now I think I know what you tried to say to me
How you suffered for your sanity
How you tried to set them free. They would not listen They're not List'ning still Perhaps they never will.
