Sometimes we, as writers you see,
Tell the greatest of lies to ourselves
Sometimes we, as humans we be
We run, and we battle, as well
Sometimes we, as oppressors we are,
We turn a blind eye to the land
Sometimes we, as animals at heart,
We spit and we snarl and make a stand
And sometimes I, as shallow as I am,
I see the world as so much more
But sometimes I, with my heart in my hand,
Sit and listen to the legends and lore
For are we not all, in some shape or form,
Exactly what we were meant to be?
Are we not all, through the sun and the storm,
So blind, and yet, all of us see?