Still I live,
And yet it seems as if I've died,
as if I suffered such wounds
I wouldn't have survived.

There should have been an onslaught,
and yet my excuse would be futile still,
because the thought of inadequacy burns in me,
and will consume me until...

Until I grasp and grapple with the truth,
that I've sheltered myself and looked away.
Nobody can yell enough, or punish me so hard,
that it could move something in me or hold sway.

It's my journey, and my deeds that haven't been done.
I could have run...
but then the troubles would pile up,
and I'd be chased by their ever increasing sum.

Until the day we die,
We must fly,
Over the clouds, to the heavens and above.
We must search and yearn, taste, try and learn.
So that when we look back,
our mistakes and follies don't burn.