It’s always the doubt,
chewing me up and spitting me out;
whether it’s yours or whether it’s mine,
both of them equally dim my shine.

At times I feel that I’m inadequate,
and truth be told that’s not the half of it;
aloof too often and needlessly analytic,
in the end I’m likely my own worst critic.

I wish I could change the way that I am,
to not see life as some absurd sham;
only once in a while can I say that I do,
from the beauty in art or the kindness in you.

We’re rarely all that we’re expected to be,
as that’s what happens when the spirit is free;
and sometimes to darkness is where we are driven,
but that doesn’t mean we can’t be forgiven.