Say It Anyway

You've had it loaded half a year,

the true thing, safety on,

rehearsed it in the shower,

worded it to death.

And every silent meeting

files another small resign,

and the true thing sits there rusting

while you polish up the nod.

It won't come out in perfect pitch.

It doesn't have to —

Say it anyway. (say it anyway!)

Shaking counts. Quiet counts.

Badly counts.

The true thing at the wrong volume

beats the lie in perfect tune.

Say it anyway.

I know the arithmetic you're running —

the room, the frost, the fallout.

Run the other column too:

what the silence has been charging.

It bills you nightly, quietly,

in self-respect, in sleep.

The truth costs once, up front, in full.

The silence is a lease.

It won't come out in perfect pitch.

It doesn't have to —

Say it anyway. (say it anyway!)

To the room. To the one. To the mirror —

the mirror hears it first or no one does.

The true thing at the wrong moment

beats the right moment that never comes.

Say it anyway.

You'll lose some rooms. I won't pretend.

Some doors close on the honest

and stay shut.

Count what walks back in, though.

Say it anyway. (say it anyway!)

Here's the whole exchange, up front:

you'll lose some rooms —

you'll get your own voice back.

Fair trade. Fair trade.

Say it anyway.

Aaah — aaah —