The truth flashed upon me
When I first wrote poetry.
In that first hour I knew
I was only the avenue.
I am privileged to have inspiration flow
Through me. I am not what I know.
The flood of this inspiration
Is only for me, not for my nation;
My nation stands apart, allowing me
To be humbled by my own poetry.
As a poet, I’m abashed and ashamed—
The one good is that my poetry is blamed.
If I can show you how my poetry is bad
Because I am limited, and endlessly sad,
My poetry has a chance to be
Something slightly better than me.
And so your understanding and pity
Is the point, is the poetry.
The trouble with expediency
Is that the expedient life,
Compared to the innocent life,
Became the criminal life,
And only the innocent life, saved,
Is what this was. And what you craved.