Is a man a fool that tries and tries again,
to mend the wounds, of attitudes, and hurts that he’s brought in?
For in my mind I rationalize all the things I want to say,
with a somber groan and a baritone I leave notes throughout the day.
I know not yet if they’re received with closed or open fist,
but in all I do I must push through
as if notes were all there is.