At times I want to go to ground
beneath some bush without a sound.
A fearful, trembling, cowardly mess
who sees himself as always less.
But less than what, I do not know;
less than the stars or rivers flow?
It’s less than that, it’s less than dirt;
Each step I take, the world I hurt!
But then I know within my heart
that that’s my inner liars art.
To tell me that I’m always less;
a world of “No” but never “Yes”
and part of what I live each day
is to prove him wrong; find my own way.
To be the truthful part of me;
let Trueman fly – just set him free.

About a foolhardy florilegium

Nullius addictus iurare in verba magistri, quo me cumque rapit tempestas, deferor hospes.
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