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I have been scorned for being one alone
Who looks to none with a certain pride
Who without help has rectified his own
Becoming one that weaker men do chide
Some cannot cope with life and end it thus
With a drug or with a knife or gun
Some just scream and make a lot of fuss
Some survive not knowing what they've done
But I have carried all my loads alone
Staggered beneath the weight of such a stress
That wearies thought and wearies aging bone
But does not change the way I choose to dress
And yet "alone" might well be lacking truth
If I can, of sweet God, provide some proof
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