I toe the line of self-indulgencenEvery time I place my pennUpon the page and form the wordsnI felt but couldn’t show ‘til thennAnd to myself I beg the questionnWhy do I thus masqueradenAs one to one and to anothernSomeone else? If I, afraidnOf what the consequence of statingnOpenly my cause might be,nWhen I rant and rhyme and reasonnDo I write for them or me?nI believe there is some meritnIn creating for one’s selfnBut why place before the publicnWhat is best left on the shelf?nThough while I write I do not feel thatnWhat I pen is mine alone,nEven this could be misguidednAs are many I have knownnWho swore, poor souls, that they possessednThe key to man’s mysterious fate,nSucceeded in convincing some,nBut most could tell they did but pratenOn subjects touching something vaguenWhich cannot be unproven, or,nIn place of content, speak in tonguesnYet know not whom they’re speaking for.nNo, I am not deluded so;nI do not feel I representnSome force divine, but still I knownThat I shall never be contentnTo hold my tongue when I would speaknOr change my words to suit the hournOr pinch a blush upon my cheeknTo feign my joy at love gone sour.nI do not wish to disappointnThe faith that others place in menTo lead the way to brighter days,nBut sometimes dark is all I see.nI work for good, I toil for hope,nNo one can question my intentnBut even those who listen closenCan often mistake what I meant.nMy fear, I’ve come to realize,nIs mainly this: that I am wrong,nThat my perception is askew,nThat I write shyte and call it song.nPerhaps I’ll always question thus,nDiscount my merits, thoughts, and deedsn‘Tis well, long as I still go forthnAnd see where this, my vision, leads.nStrong is she who knows her mindnAnd speaks it though she may not please.nFortunate the audiencenThat hears such honest thoughts as these.