I would be lying if I said I didn’t care.
If I said it didn’t hurt.
I would be lying if I pretended not to notice you there.
Lying to myself, because it is readily apparent to you
That I love you.
I don’t know how you know and how it’s hidden from me some days.
Each day begins with you; you’re on my mind and in my heart, so
I guess I know too that you love me.
Why would I be lying if I spoke roughly to you?
How would I be lying if I said some unkind word?
When would I be lying if I didn’t tell you each day how much you mean to me.
Let me not wait till you’ve gone to state my truth to you each waking hour.
Let me not lie to myself that I am without you.
Let me say how much you do each day for our family, our marriage, our home.
Let me not lie.
There is no time for it.
– Small town boy
I'm stymied, I guess.
I haven't written for a while,
After criticism and censorship.
The problem I have is this:
Each word, each thought has been dug up,
Dug up from the internal (and eternal) junk pile that is my recollection.
These thoughts are mine, I own them, and yet…
I permit the criticism of others dear to me to destroy my writing; my decision.
And so I approach each new thought with their censorship in mind; don't dig too deep.
Ok, so maybe I didn't think through enough the offending thoughts.
Maybe they were right, but still I must admit a stricture on my thinking.
And so now I begin again to write.
Unable to keep these thoughts buried, I must present them to you.
You have a right to your opinion.
I have a right to mine.
But should I publish for all the world to see?
Do I needs/must take into account the effect on others,
Or do I only have obligation to my Self to write what I feel?
Who reads this stuff anyway?
– Small town boy