On Artistic Integrity (Poem)

I toe the line of self-indulgence

Every time I place my pen

Upon the page and form the words

I felt but couldn't show 'til then

And to myself I beg the question

Why do I thus masquerade

As one to one and to another

Someone else? If I, afraid

Of what the consequence of stating

Openly my cause might be,

When I rant and rhyme and reason

Do I write for them or me?

I believe there is some merit

In creating for one's self

But why place before the public

What is best left on the shelf?

Though while I write I do not feel that

What I pen is mine alone,

Even this could be misguided

As are many I have known

Who swore, poor souls, that they possessed

The key to man's mysterious fate,

Succeeded in convincing some,

But most could tell they did but prate

On subjects touching something vague

Which cannot be unproven, or,

In place of content, speak in tongues

Yet know not whom they're speaking for.

No, I am not deluded so;

I do not feel I represent

Some force divine, but still I know

That I shall never be content

To hold my tongue when I would speak

Or change my words to suit the hour

Or pinch a blush upon my cheek

To feign my joy at love gone sour.

I do not wish to disappoint

The faith that others place in me

To lead the way to brighter days,

But sometimes dark is all I see.

I work for good, I toil for hope,

No one can question my intent

But even those who listen close

Can often mistake what I meant.

My fear, I've come to realize,

Is mainly this: that I am wrong,

That my perception is askew,

That I write shyte and call it song.

Perhaps I'll always question thus,

Discount my merits, thoughts, and deeds

'Tis well, long as I still go forth

And see where this, my vision, leads.

Strong is she who knows her mind

And speaks it though she may not please.

Fortunate the audience

That hears such honest thoughts as these.