I am who I aspire to be; I was born free.
Only God knows the truth it seems; He gardens dreams.
So don't judge me too harshly friend, cracks might still mend!
See what Kind see behind my fear, still, hold me, dear.
It is true that my image fares better in scrimmage
If my friends don't abuse me, the coach might still use me,
Some will blink at the danger when I act like stranger,
But real me is genetic, a blooming aesthetic.
I feel pain when I regress and joy when I progress
But no tour in the traces my stumble erases.
Though there's human remaining, I'm still horse in training,
And a soldier who's bleeding, whose death no one's heeding.
I can hear singing critics speak, 'Argument's weak,
Aspirations as good as dead, so's your friend Fred! '(1)
But my heart tells me they're so wrong; False logic's song!
Aspirations are ALL you see, man's certainty!
Though our clothes do not make us free, honesty can,
And though many may try for fame, what's in a name?
It is God's wrath that I'd not see, don't you agree?
His Grace frees me from feeling shame, Love without blame!
March 10,2017
Poet's Notes:
This poem is an Echo written in response to a poem that I like a lot by Lewis Raynes called "Fake Me Is Better Than Real Me" on PoetrySoup.com.
(1) Lifted from a previous poem where I share that God's best buds call him Fred in casual settings, like a night out for pizza and beer!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem