This Life I Live

This life I live, I’m told, is not my own,
but a gift to be spent on others.
There is much for which I must atone.

Convictions I express are my own,
but are usually attributed to others.
This life I live, I'm told, is not my own.

Doubt is a heavy fever in my bones.
I have chills my quilts cannot cover.
Convictions I express are my own.

My history is a desert spread with stones.
Worries like vultures hover.
Doubt is a heavy fever in my bones.

Some left behind were lovers, all long since gone,
gifts better spent on others.
My history is a desert spread with stones.