I worry, if I write my soul, There’s no one that would understand And so, as if some ancient scroll, I translate for my brave new land But here, a word has lost its meaning And there, a tune has lost its singing And somewhere along the way has gone The very thing that I wished put to song. And yet, I worry, if I write my soul, No one could ever understand And maybe, the glass might be half full, But that doesn’t mean it’s not half full of sand. And, who could be that keen on drinking? Better to reign as queen of over-thinking: And decree instead of glasses, better a box, And better still to double-check it locks.
Tell me how they know When to leap and when to stay; Tell me where to go When everywhere’s a way. Tell me what you see When there’s nothing left to say; Please, just stay with me When I know I’ve gone astray.
My verse affords me not The magic of transformation; Bland are all my thoughts, And every word’s a shallow imitation: A fine echo of a troubled mind; One confused, a little tired, Craving a warmth it cannot hope to find — Will not hope to find, for such is mired In mistakes that scar like fire, And to guard against with cold Is the only defense this child knows To keep from growing old.
I can’t tell if it’s comedy or tragedy,
That someone might believe there’s something to see in me,
Or that at such a hint I have to think
“What do they think that they can get from me?”
I could say my faith was at some point shattered —
But I never kept it where it might fall;
I could say my soul is long since broken —
But it’s hidden away, never touched at all.
So I can’t tell if it’s comedy or tragedy,
But there’s something to this thing
That’s either just a touch ridiculous
Or sadder than most anything.