I used to write just to read on and on
In a listing manner, with a scrolling eye

But no more do I
Write in such a manner as this

There’s no desire to be found
As those days have long since passed me by

And now I only write for myself, the ID
As compared to the length which these pages provide

And I stop flowing waters
Dead in their tracks, without so much as a whisper

Because I’m no longer afraid to speak
Or to be seen here within these imperfect lines