The rage is building and it cannot be stopped
I am pulled to both sides but I know I will not
Relent to either; I'd rather be shot.
But sooner or later I may be cut like a sliver.

I feel like some pawn, like a log in a river,
Moved by forces I don't understand;
Armed with only my words in a quiver,
The torrents of the song I am supposed to outstand.

What is the way? Is there a trick?
How does one write a song?
Know that for each one it's unique;
There is no right and wrong.

For me, it's a fierce struggle,
A battle of wits against myself;
I pour forth my soul and bleed my own heart,
But finally achieve the emotional wealth,
The wealth that is surpassed by none: happiness.

But the writing itself is a hell of a task,
Every word has to be earned first by blood.
The songs I write contain my essence,
And sometimes the feelings threaten to flood...

I am in a war I don't want to end,
Fighting for what I believe is good;
Using my skills I try to defend
The beliefs upon which my life I spend;
But I yearn to be understood.