I toe the line of self-indulgence
Every time I place my pen
Upon the page and form the words
I felt but couldn’t show ‘til then
And to myself I beg the question
Why do I thus masquerade
As one to one and to another
Someone else? If I, afraid
Of what the consequence of stating
Openly my cause might be
When I rant and rhyme and reason
Do I write for them or me?
I believe there is some merit
In creating for one’s self
But why place before the public
What is best left on the shelf?
Though while I write I do not feel that
What I pen is mine alone
Even this could be misguided
As are many I have known
Who swore, poor souls, that they possessed
The key to man’s mysterious fate
Succeeded in convincing some
But most could tell they did but prate
On subjects touching something vague
Which cannot be unproven, or
In place of content, speak in tongues
Yet know not whom they’re speaking for
No, I am not deluded so;
I do not feel I represent
Some force divine, but still I know
That I shall never be content
To hold my tongue when I would speak
Or change my words to suit the hour
Or pinch a blush upon my cheek
To feign my joy at love gone sour
I do not wish to disappoint
The faith that others place in me
To lead the way to brighter days
But sometimes dark is all I see
I work for good, I toil for hope
No one can question my intent
But even those who listen close
Can often mistake what I meant
My fear, I’ve come to realize
Is mainly this: that I am wrong
That my perception is askew
That I write shyte and call it song
Perhaps I’ll always question thus
Discount my merits, thoughts, and deeds
‘Tis well, long as I still go forth
And see where this, my vision, leads
Strong is she who knows her mind
And speaks it though she may not please
Fortunate the audience
That hears such honest thoughts as these