Gathering praise in tiny grains,

How hard it is to live this way —

To weigh each word that others say,

And tremble: will it bring me pain?

I shouldn’t feel such joy, they say,

Nor grieve — well, why not? Let it be.

And so, in turn, I give away

A cup of flattery, wild and free.

I do not judge, nor claim the right —

Who gave me power to condemn?

I simply speak into the night,

And pause… a sudden interval.

Even I, why not, although —

Adore it like a soap opera.

I read with awe the wordy slop

The audience so freely gave.

I do not know — or rather, fear —

Yet still, I long to speak it true:

I cannot write what isn’t real,

And should not start — not me, not you.

This poem may remain a shade,

That falls upon my page at night.

But I have written — so I’ve said —

May God be with me in my flight.