The Truth.
To tell you the truth
nothing we're ever gonna do
will make a difference,
it has its pros and cons.
we could live our life
like it's ours
it is, isn't it?
we wouldn't make a difference.
To tell you the truth
nothing is original,
words that I'm using have been used
letters that I'm writing have been written
thoughts that make me sleepless
have made somebody else sleepless
the way I am looking at the moon,
has been looked at that way.
To tell you the truth
this feeling has already been felt
we love, we are lovers,
they loved, they were lovers
people, they come and they go
some make a difference, some don't
what if we don't? how are we going to?
you don't know the answer, and neither do I.
To tell you the truth
I could write a song for you,
but I'm worried the song might already have been written,
written to someone, by someone,
somewhere we don't quite know
I need a new language
for you and I
and I'll write you a song in our language
does that count as history?
To tell you the truth
I don't understand
I don't understand how any of this matters
how our existence will make a difference, and well,
lovers have loved, sinners have sinned
artists have created art, singers have sung
directors have directed, smokers have smoked
people have lived, people have died
what's left for us to do?
Author’s Commentary
“This poem talks about how everything feels like it’s been done previously. Discover themes of history, melancholy, and a sense of déjà-vu, as well as the need to do something different, something that has never been done. This poem portrays freedom in an endless cycle.”