Sometimes I wonder what I’m gonna write
I have no idea most the time
Thus is the artist’s, the songwriter’s plight:
Will this be a story, or rhyme?
Will my words have meaning?
Will anyone read these syllables here on the page?
And, if the do, will they call me a fool?
Or perhaps will they think me a sage?
Do I even bother to finish this poem?
Perhaps I will stop; start again
And then, when I finish, when all is complete
Honestly, truly - what then?
Does my life go on as it has all these years?
Will something about it be new?
Will my days cease to matter - will they start again?
Tomorrow, will sky still be blue?
What is the point, I find myself ponder
With every strike of the key:
If nothing here changes, no mystery solved,
What then is the point? Can you tell me?
Sometimes I go over the words that I write
And fuss at each line’s counted time
“This one’s not perfect; no that one’s not right;
“Ugh, that one does not even rhyme!”
And even just now, as I make my own fun
At the words that I seem to think lack,
I can’t help myself, it just has to be done -
Already twice I’ve gone back
To fix and to fuss at the words that I’ve writ
Right here on this fantasy page
Perhaps it is true: I am really a fool…
But then, who decides who’s a sage?
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