Listen to this post:
When I was who I was before,
I didn’t know how to be that man.
I’m still not sure what I’m doing,
But it comforts me to know
No one really does.
Maybe we all occasionally suffer
from “imposter syndrome”
because we’re, all of us, imposters,
playing at who we imagine we need to be
in order to be what we need to be,
whatever that is.
Only the foolish truly believe
they are in control
and on top of things.
The honest humans understand
they will never have
all the answers.
I know where the four winds blow. I raise my sail to catch the way I want to go. “Slow,” I says to myself, “go slow,” but my soul wants to fly, I’m not quite sure why — probably because time rushes so.
And if I sit here too long, will I turn to stone? Will I die right here, stock still and all alone? Have I always been a child, or have I grown? The day is creeping past, and I feel out of gas. Have I seen all that this day might have shown?
It feels dumb to sit here, grasping for a rhyme. It’s not as if I do this all the time, and wasting precious moments seems a crime. Yet it’s more than I’ve attempted before, so maybe this is part of the design.
And so I mumble further down the page, hoping now I finally break out of the cage in search of cures for everybody’s rage. I know it’s probably futile, the world is far too brutal, but dreams might usher in a peaceful age.
And what if I promise not to close my eyes
Until I come up with something wise
That will last throughout the ages?
And what if the words refuse to dance
Until I’m willing to take a chance
To spill my soul onto these pages?
And if I wake before I die
I’ll ask that God show me a sky
Blazing as angels sing around me.
At day’s end all that I can ask
Is to once more be up to the task
And let not my foolishness confound me.
There! Fourteen lines that might survive
As proof that I was once alive.
