Memory Of A Ghost
They said the only way
To make money writing poems
Is to sing them
So I picked up my guitar
And hummed a tune
I tried to write some words down
But each time I tried
All I could think about
Was you
I don’t recall the first time I saw you
Or the first time we met
But I know you had me
From the beginning
There was drama
There was desire
There were all the makings
Of a good play
But this wasn’t theatre
This was real life
I thought about you every day
Couldn’t stop if I tried
And even now you haunt me
When I pick up the pen to write
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