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Behind A Ghost
They say that songs of love
turn heartbeats into scores.
But I'm feeling like a singer
whose words seem lacking worth.
My mind keeps spinning harder
when her sweet lips speak my way.
and I call out for some inner strength
to say what I should say.
Her beauty is all seasons
and her eyes turn straight to me.
But I wonder how to play my cards
and I never speak my piece.
Like a curse that blankets virtue
I go bragging through a ghost
and although my words seem open
they're not spoken from my soul.
She says, "I'm pleased of you to greet."
and in truth her words thrill me.
I see her through a future past
where my heart was seized with heat
where she was my poetry
a sun venus in my eyes
but I chose my words so badly
that the truth remained inside.
So, if truth makes the best of love
then silence is a scream
hiding there behind a front
of words bound so discreet
Those words are now tired support
still slipping through my head
So I cry behind a ghost of words
where the truth remains unsaid.
The role of poetry is to utter the un-utterable; to open up
spaces of consciousness and resistance; to language oppressions; to
re-language historie
