Being Real

The pencil lead breaks when I try to sharpen it.
The lead that's dull is least likely to cut.

When friends and family
laugh and talk about me,
and I have nothing to say,
I pick up my pen and my lead
and let the pages with me
transcend the sleeping mind,
so I still have a place to find.

Just as the explorer
loses interest in the path,
I let the shower
drop all of me in the bath.

This is not stupid, this is real.
How many people spend 5 minutes a day
to be real with themselves?

Under god, one nation,
two parties where nobody
has any fun, and people die.
They bleed, they burn, they suffer.
No one sings anymore.
I only began singing this year.

Why sing for this country
when we can sing for the world,
all of it we know.
Europe is not the world.
America is not the world.
The world is the world.

Sometimes it hurts so badly I must cry out loud.

Is this how I cope?
Are these words to an audience?
What are my motivations to write?
What governs my line length,
what says ten syllables or five?
You do, my love, you do,
sweetest part of me,
that quails but seeks to mend
every end that fails to me.