I see the train,
And people smile politely,
Waving with their clenched fist,
No, your ideas are absurd,
You take the pen and pencil and keyboard,
You write, and you sweat,
You feel the breathing of discontent,
As you write you joints hurt,
You freeze but outside is hot,
You want to think,
But you want to be liked,
You want to do something different.
Are you one of the many?
Or are you one of the few?

When will you have your statue?
Or a hundred years from now?