To be a poet,
writing to a ghost, a lover,
for whom I needn't boast, to a thought, a dream,
a lover not there, not even far away,
jotting, until the words become cold,
the same ones you felt could start a fire,
now leaving you with frostbite.
Will these words reach you?
Will my heart reach you? writing to a dream,
cos dreams are perfect,
I don't know anymore, why I write of you,
a ghost in my ink,
a lover not there, not even far away.

To be a reader,
he writes to her and she to him,
words tender and delicate,
I can see these are meant only for he,
only for she,
but what a tragedy,
he's heart will never reach,
her words will not mean a dime,
if they were for me, undoubtedly,
I would treasure them like a diamond in grime,
to be a reader, hurts like hell,
most of the time, to see a love pure,
never reach its home,
die out in history, behind paperback,
not having breathed life
and I can only witness such a tragedy, of a love that may or may never reach.

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