My desire's fire implores me to ask,
"How much mileage might I milk from this moment?
Can I overcome insecurity's snake?
Can I kill the cancerous contempt
Of folly's flippant fakes?
Will someone care about what I do?
Do I care about them-- or you?"
There comes a time
When questioning becomes benign
And all that matters
Are those things you're already doing.
Who cares what might be
When what is is good enough?
And is it? Is it really?
Or are you deluded?
Or am I for begging the question?
I don't have all the answers;
Some of them I do,
But some of them belong to you.
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