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.