“Alexander build a bridge to Tyre,
I can’t walk a straight line ‘cross the street.
How am I supposed to be my own empire
of one when I’m not good enough for wander meat?”
I think things like this when others opine
that maybe I should chart a course in life.
Well maybe all my foes, some of my friends, whine,
because a lack of course means lack of strife.
I can’t say I’d hide from all the fair fights.
I’d have helped ol’ Alex build that bridge.
But then again my course don’t keep me up nights
except to wonder what’s beyond that ridge.
I spose I could have been a doctor’s lawyer,
not so much the much-sung ‘Indian Chief’,
and though I could have had everything to want, sure
enough I would have stuck and come to grief.
I’ve paints, and paper, pens, and inks and guitars.
A banjo I call Steve to warm my knee.
I’ve goddesses to write for and paint their stars
and goddesses I want, who might want me.
So next time you see an artist working don’t think,
“They could have had so much, how low they fall.”
Look to yourself, your routine, see if there’s a brink
to build a bridge to,
if there’s still time for you to build at all.