I was lost, but now I'm found.
I was dead, but now I'm alive.
I was dry ink, but now I'm fresh.
I was dangling from a vine, but now I've been picked.
I was wrong, and now I'm right.
I hadn't realized that my writing simply wasn't barefaced
Now I've realized it's got taste,
It's got an angst.
It won't forever be in gluey, fluidy, paste,
Stuck to a wall and never embraced.
My poetry from before,
Simply wasn't eyesore,
But it was just that I never caught that that was the fish I had adored.
But now that I am shooting in the range
Of words I'll never rearrange
But now I know for sure and forever that my style and taste can never change.