The Poet Acts Lyrics

Song	The Poet Acts
Artist	Philip Glass
Album	The Hours (Music from the Motion Picture)
Download	Image LRC TXT

	The poet acts like if there is no present,
	the mind moves back and forth,
	trying to distinguish simplicity.
	There are no look backs nor verification,
	the meaning it is not memorized:
	there are no plans for composition.
	Grammar gets lost in a valley.
	Analysis perishes;
	only truth is searched.
	But what is truth really?
	That cannot be determined.
	Most of the poet acts walk near by the words love, freedom, sadness, melancholy and self-awareness;
	while others
	struggle to find the voice
	that once seemed clear
	and now is completely forgotten.
	The poet battles his way out from an emotional highway,
	with drastic turns,
	endless yellow lights, highlighted speed limits,
	altering what once was
	a smooth and unstoppable drive.
	The acts dissipate between thoughts that put in question
	what started with inspiration.
	The poet has no map and no guidelines.
	The mind travels deep down,
	searching for the unknown.
	It might be even possible
	that nothing would come back at all as the written word,
	maybe the emotion does not get exposed and all becomes
	a lying fact
	waiting to be broken and scrutinized.
	Truth happens by accident.
	Our illusory world tricks us in thinking we did find meaning,
	but life does not care
	at all.
	The poet acts, similar to pieces of paper, are there,
	in plain sight,
	waiting to be judge for their content,
	even when there may be,
	in blank pages,
	nothing to tell…

	The poet acts like if there is no present,
	the mind moves back and forth,
	trying to distinguish simplicity.
	There are no look backs nor verification,
	the meaning it is not memorized:
	there are no plans for composition.
	Grammar gets lost in a valley.
	Analysis perishes
	only truth is searched.
	But what is truth really?
	That cannot be determined.
	Most of the poet acts walk near by the words love, freedom, sadness, melancholy and selfawareness
	while others
	struggle to find the voice
	that once seemed clear
	and now is completely forgotten.
	The poet battles his way out from an emotional highway,
	with drastic turns,
	endless yellow lights, highlighted speed limits,
	altering what once was
	a smooth and unstoppable drive.
	The acts dissipate between thoughts that put in question
	what started with inspiration.
	The poet has no map and no guidelines.
	The mind travels deep down,
	searching for the unknown.
	It might be even possible
	that nothing would come back at all as the written word,
	maybe the emotion does not get exposed and all becomes
	a lying fact
	waiting to be broken and scrutinized.
	Truth happens by accident.
	Our illusory world tricks us in thinking we did find meaning,
	but life does not care
	at all.
	The poet acts, similar to pieces of paper, are there,
	in plain sight,
	waiting to be judge for their content,
	even when there may be,
	in blank pages,
	nothing to tell

	The poet acts like if there is no present,
	the mind moves back and forth,
	trying to distinguish simplicity.
	There are no look backs nor verification,
	the meaning it is not memorized:
	there are no plans for composition.
	Grammar gets lost in a valley.
	Analysis perishes
	only truth is searched.
	But what is truth really?
	That cannot be determined.
	Most of the poet acts walk near by the words love, freedom, sadness, melancholy and selfawareness
	while others
	struggle to find the voice
	that once seemed clear
	and now is completely forgotten.
	The poet battles his way out from an emotional highway,
	with drastic turns,
	endless yellow lights, highlighted speed limits,
	altering what once was
	a smooth and unstoppable drive.
	The acts dissipate between thoughts that put in question
	what started with inspiration.
	The poet has no map and no guidelines.
	The mind travels deep down,
	searching for the unknown.
	It might be even possible
	that nothing would come back at all as the written word,
	maybe the emotion does not get exposed and all becomes
	a lying fact
	waiting to be broken and scrutinized.
	Truth happens by accident.
	Our illusory world tricks us in thinking we did find meaning,
	but life does not care
	at all.
	The poet acts, similar to pieces of paper, are there,
	in plain sight,
	waiting to be judge for their content,
	even when there may be,
	in blank pages,
	nothing to tell

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