The least of me is always on the outside.
My dull side always faces to the sun.
The finest thoughts are hidden in the shadow,
the tenderest moments somehow never sung.
Try as I may to face and force the issue
and show the world the contours of my mind,
the subtleties are faded in translation.
The meanings are misplaced by word and rhyme.
Maybe in our unheard conversations
we’ve found the answer we sought all along.
The price to pay for being fully human
is that we’ll never write the perfect song.
I guess it shows.
© George Phillips, 1973
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| Famous American Songs by Gustav Koppé in Cornell University Library from Wikimedia Commons |
