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.