There were so many things I could do.
I could play the guitar
and the piano too.
I could write the lyrics
and compose the music,
compose a poem,
write a book.
I could draw,
I could paint.
I could do do both in greatest detail.
I could build
a house
with plumbing and electric,
I could wash and iron the clothes...
I could make the clothes,
I could clean the house...
and raise their children.
I could fish,
I could hunt
on instinct
and
on instinct
find my way into the woods
and
back out again.
I could learn other languages,
remember maps of other lands.
I could live in the largest cities
or on farms, in the wild, and
places in between.
I could smile in crowds.
I could revel in solitude.
I could navigate in darkness
and love the brilliance of the sun,
the greyness of a rainy day,
the silent dance of snow, falling to the Earth,
blowing in the wind.
And I could hide...
OH! How I could hide
in the centre of an empty room,
standing perfectly, utterly still
I could hide
inside myself
and out of view.
I could be at arm's length when needed.
I could be away, away, long beyond the horizon,
out the way, out of the way,
way out of the way
I could be
and I could not be.<

And I did all that I could
and I did it all the very best that I could
because I could
and I did.
And what I could not do I did until I could
and I did it well,
I did.

But all that I could do good
and all the good that I could do,
instead of making you proud of me
made you hate me all the more,
the greater,
the more powerfully
until
at last
you wanted me dead
and you tried,
OH! how you tried
because...
you could.

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