Why does the ink only flow
In times of petty anguish?
But times of broader rawness
Seem so easy to extinguish?
Why must I push myself to write this now,
While the trivial pours out like cloudburst?
Why does this piece crawl out slower than a snail,
Though it deserves a bigger outburst?
Do I just feel the little things the most?
Or do I put up a front of falsehood,
To seem more than I really am,
To just be seen as doing good?
Or worse, am I just a hypocrite too?
Nothing more than a cheap fraud?
Putting on a show to fool myself and others,
Just to have something right to say out loud?
But do I have anything just of mine to say?
Or am I just parroting?
Am I no different from those I deplore,
Just another bard with nothing to sing?
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