I’m talking with Oprah about the things that matter
And the doctor thought I was a mad hatter
So he prescribed 
What he could to keep hope alive
But it was a sickness I couldn’t bear
And the cure was worse than what I tear 
Open as I receive the letter
Don’t worry, you will get better
They reassure
But I am pure
And there is no weather than can define
Me when I am out of line 
As I hop scotch
But the rules are chalk and I rock
The boat as best I can
I’ll never be servant to a man
But he comes around
And I hear the sound
Of his holy wake
And the part of me I cannot forsake 
As he gains ground
One time I said someone was sound
But I lost him then 
And he won’t come back ever again
At least not in this realm
I was at the helm
Of a ship I can’t sail
And the paper won’t refuse ink or fail
To listen when I wear my voice
Like an ingenue without a choice
To be what I am
I speak because it seems I can