What do I show you?
That I can sing and write?
That I can play guitar or cook a mean filet mingon?
Hell, if I could single handedly save the
world from it’s inevitable demise
I’d still do so without any passion..

What can I bring to the table
When you’re the only thing that  I
can imagine attributing any worth to?

When you are the air I breathe
Why I’m caught up in this mess
When you’re the echoes of my every desire
How could I ever bring enough to
your table?

Could someone please tell me:
When you’re standing in the presence
Of everything you’ve ever wanted
How could you ever be worthy of its
existence?