As I wake, and I shake the fragments and shards
That bound and rebound around my yawning brain,
I try to piece together the message in the strains of coherence
that were departed to me just minutes before hand;
But this is a foreign tongue, in a strange new land.
When the words that I speak aren't the ones that I'd thought,
and the voice is one that I've not heard before;
But what does this mean?
Was it all just a dream?
Or is there meaning and depth to this transient scene?
I know what it isn't; it isn't a scam.
It's heart-felt and primal, and completely unplanned.
It's yearning, it's powerful, it's dying to get out,
but I just can't grasp it no matter how hard I shout.
It's frustrating, this want this need to be heard
But it feels like I'm powerless - and a little absurd.
It seems that my dreams are stronger than my conviction, and my expression;
no more withstanding than the paper I write my thoughts on.
If I were great, then this would be effortless!
But I'm not, and it isn't.
And I'm afraid I digress: I get distracted and captured
in the rapture of existence
-or otherwise totally consumed by art.
Then I forget what I'm here for, and I have to restart.
But that never changes what I feel inside,
this want to do good, that I simply can't hide;
this desire to converse, to help and to save.
To bring calm, and awareness, to quell hatred and rage.
But they say things worth doing are never that easy
and I find that most folks just judge of misread me.
If I could just get it together,
I feel I could transform the whole world,
but it seems all I'm left to work with,
is someone else's words.