Where does unworthiness live?
Does it thrive, untried, in shady nooks
or the notion that there are too many books
and try as you might, the effort you give
to be well-read is in vain; it goes unsaid
that the feeling creeps in on a warm sunny day
when Goodness proclaims, “why, here I should stay!”
And like a balloon you fill up with dread
that they must be mistaken,
surely some wrong road they’ve taken,
to have ever arrived at so inane a conclusion.
“Who, me? Worthy? There must be some confusion.
You see, there is a story I tell to myself,
and so well do I tell it that even I believe it:
for I am a meager, frail little thing
unworthy of love and the happiness it brings,
for who could ever love a little mushroom like me,
when all around me are these tall lovely trees?”
And the Goodness will sigh,
and look you right in the eye, “My dear boy,”
she will say, “now I know how you lie,
for I’ve heard you sing, so sing with all your might;
for song dissolves plight and conjures delight;
free your woes from their chains and let music take flight!”