There’s an urge for authenticity in everything I write,
It blocks all inspiration and bids every thought goodnight,
It vetoes all my sentences before they hit the screen,
A voice inside: “Access denied. That can’t be what you mean!”
Well no, it probably isn’t – but I don’t know where to start:
There’s nothing more elusive than the contents of my heart.
So when it seems impossible to see inside my head,
Forget about it: just write something humorous instead.
I’ll make this self-forgetfulness the means of my release,
And levity shall ever be the gateway to my peace;
But if I ever wish to visit wisdom later on,
I really hope my “deep” ideas are not completely gone.