People always hate me once they know me,
And so, I hide behind this pseudonym —
I’m only worth what I can give to others:
In dollars, or, perhaps, in apothegm
I sit here, mangled, ineffective, mordant;
I spray these useless songs into the air —
I long for harmony, but am discordant;
I wish that you were here, or I was there
I’d sacrifice myself if it would save you;
To know with fond recall I would be held —
At least remembered for the things I gave you,
And not for times I fretted, moped,
Or yelled
