I’d rather have no name, than never know what it’s like to let you see into my soul. 
The leap of faith I’d take blindly, just so you’d latch on to every tale I’ve ever told. 

Of my name I’d beg to be stripped, 
if I could ever see my own thoughts in print.

On the dusty decrepit shelf of the bookstore, I don’t care,
just bind my scripts in lily-white sheets, where I’ve laid out my spirit bare.

I’d hope you dissect and ridicule every letter marked in ink.
Because without my musings I’d just further sink,

into a whirlpool of creations itching to get out, 
of this skin and bones where no one can hear them shout.

I’d choose being nothing but a mere no-name to you, over never falling in love with words.
If only by the world, mine could finally be heard.

Please, give this no-name a chance, 
and I’ll fight as if every move is my last dance. 

I pretend I don’t but I do, 
so badly just want to be something to you.

I’m not after fame,
yet I’d do whatever it takes, all for a stranger to know my name.