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).