It's always hard to say these things just right;
They come out twisted, strange, and mostly wrong.
I think it may have been so on that night.
Without a miracle to help along
My otherwise too-faulty words, I fall
Into this patter that fails to attest
To what I really mean, so almost all
My words are less than I am at my best.
And when I am not at my best, I feel
Useless and pointless, more alone than ever,
As if the world around is not quite real
And there are no links left for me to sever.
I know this isn't true, but true expression
Is far beyond me - why else this confession?
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