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.Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
