I think I stopped
Grovelling and wallowing in what I didn't have
I think I started
Working hard and not writing about it
Look at me, silly me
I forgot what it was to be
To be that little boy, sat on the toilet writing poems
Because nowhere else was safe to write.

I think my fears have changed,
And thus my need to write
I know who I am now, seen sorrows abate
And taken on those robes I dared not accept
Those names I dared not carry
Who was I then? I was the one who did not know myself.
But at least in that I knew me
Now, I love myself more, but
Is love writing poems for me? No.
Mud's the only ink my pen will take
Mud from my feet sinking slowly.

I think I'm a parody of myself, and
Perhaps I'll take me in new directions,
Or perhaps I'll leave me behind and take on new dreams
The truth is, I had to force myself to write this,
Forced to feel my way down to this level
But, I think, perhaps a cocky thought
Or perhaps acknowledging the new way of things
My old self, my old rusted plate, barely standing,
And my new shining body, pink and dry in the sun's honesty
We make a nice team, perhaps I just need to listen a bit more
To what I tried to block out.