It's a strange reget I fear,
that I might look back on my years,
and regret that I'd been kind,
when finally comes my time.

That I might look back and revere
the times when I was selfish.
And well, this was never meant to be
a contest of who was kindest,
I think in my absense of mind just
pottering around,
avoiding the risk of being
a bad memory from another human being,
but in this incessant kindness,
I worry that I'm seeing
an increasing list of costs
and a shrinking window of feelings
and asking in a voice
quiet enough to never be heard,
I ask the world, "have I been heard?"

I am no ******* of gilded sentiments.
Purchasing my fortune in currencies of kind words.
Settling my debts to the harbinger and the reaper
by my endeavor to never been seen alike them.
I seek the gentle will of the world we built
by calling blindly for salvation
within a nation of those who cannot see
and hoping that they'll somehow see me,
If I devote my life
to being something someone else should have been.