There are so many arguments for so many different things,
I am dizzy and lost, waiting for someone to tell me who I am.
The man at the bookstore, with the big glasses and sharp nose,
said that in order to read Hardy, one must simply just start.
(There is no right way).
I don’t know if I am loving you proper, and that may be grounds to quit.
I still can’t hear your prayer.
(I hope that fault is in my ears and not in your heart).
Your colors match mine, but not my pattern, and so in agony I live.
I wish I had begun this by loving you the right way,
but the only way I know how is without Him, and that isn’t right.
(There must be a right way).