Self Discovery

Self Discovery
By Andrew Moravick

All words of eloquence have already been said,
No thoughts of mine own reside in my head.

Oh to be the one that first created the word,
Or to be the writer of the first poem ever heard.

Such freedom to be valid for all places and times,
To have purpose and power retained in one’s rhymes.

Oh to live forever in lines personally penned,
To exist for eternity with no worries of an end.

Fear consumes me as I look deep within,
What can I say is mine if not simply my skin?

If my thoughts aren’t new and not even my own,
What attests for my existence, what evidence is shown?

Yet why should I fear to be nothing more?
Why hardship and pain do I seek to endure,

To attain greatness, prestige, fortune and fame,
To live on the lips of those praising my name?

Why can’t I find joy in a life mundane?
Why does mediocrity inflict on me pain?

What wondrous works can I do when all have been done?
What words can I use when of my own there are none?

If I am supposed to somehow transcend,
What means must I use to get to that end?

Am I but a bard, could that be my gift?
Is it my purpose to other’s souls uplift?

For all the fortune I have must I pay a price,
Must my own joy and comfort I sacrifice?

Perhaps another gift I unknowingly possess,
A power profound I unknowingly repress.

Perhaps I’m a fool to expect more out of life,
Piling on pain and supplying my soul with strife.


I was born, I live, and someday will I die,
But have I really lived if my life is a lie?

If I am not all that I was destined to be,
And my true purpose I have failed to see,

Than at least I can live on, in pages and in rhymes,
And let others discover me in new ages and times.