"When I am writing, I am trying to find out who I am…" –Maya Angelou
I can tell what you really feel:
The only pride I’ll really claim
Is in the capacity to hear a joke,
And hear a heartbeat in its punchline.
Oh, I know it does no good
Listening to languages unknown:
My translation tells me one thing;
To them, it’s overblown.
But I can feel the deeper meaning,
And I can’t unfeel the pain;
How can I be glad of my existence,
When I know that you don’t feel the same?
I can’t be the same for everyone,
And that’s something no one understands
As they tell me just to be myself
And give the facts within my hands.
But the truth is how it is presented,
And I don’t know which way is right;
All I know is that I’m drowning,
And my instinct is always flight.
All I see from both is spite,
Rent heartstrings being favored
As each victim stands there holding knives,
Every truth so gladly cut asunder
In the madness that ensues;
And it seems as if the roll of dice
Is the only way to choose.
It’s dangerous to have opinions
Never knowing if the story’s true
Or which version they’re telling you.
You’d think we’d get on better,
Sharing viewpoints and our youth;
But our words are lost to law’s cruel letter
As you lie, and I don’t tell the truth.
A world unknown beyond my own
Shall tease, and taunt, and terrify;
And all I’ve done, what truths I’ve drawn
Are there only to vilify.
My life is based in lies:
Truths untold
Hide me from the prying eyes,
The judgements we’re supposed to make.
Everything I’ve ever heard
Tells me how my actions must be seen,
And who am I to say it’s wrong?
Who am I to say I’m sane?
Who am I to say I care, when I’m gone;
That I’m centered, when I’m drawn;
That every word I’ve ever spoken
Isn’t some evil, manipulative song?
Who am I to say that I deserve
While others have the right to say “what nerve!”
And like the wretch I’ve always been
I haven’t got the nerve to argue very long.
Best that I just carry on,
Trying to try on nothing different;
Because it seems the greatest gift that I can give,
To leave behind the smallest footprint.
Some call it a lack of self-esteem;
Some people call it modesty.
Some will call it cruelty;
While others call it honesty.
Some will take in broken things
And some will make anew;
But no matter what roads you take,
All sides can be true.
I feel false:
However hard I try,
The Truth from another angle
Becomes just another lie.
My life’s a composition
Of mundane mysteries and masks
Yet all you have to do
To know what’s underneath, is ask.
Writer In Retrospect 