the grass is tall again,
and towering green, with Spring.

I never expected to fall in love with it;
but it became my lighthouse in the darkest times,
and the coldest seas. The most hidden of sanctuaries.

The earth is moving again,
and I can see every little person make some progress.

I never expected to fall in love with it;
but the people around me are like carrier birds,
transmitting my few happy thoughts to the world.
And I couldn't be more joyful, when
you became a doctor,
and you became an engineer,
and you became a real chef.

It all falls like an apple down to me, and I
wonder now, what will I become?

That is what gives me heartache,
that is what makes me feel alone, far more
than when I can't write, and I feel disposed.
They say an ocean sits beneath every thought.

So why aren't mine as well constructed as they were?
Thinking about it makes me uncomfortable, but-

I am barely seventeen and I am not the writer I used to be.
I coldly snap at everything I create, because it is never perfect,
and I am never perfect.
Nothing is ever perfect.

So I've adjusted lies to make them fit my story,
and I have become less honest in the past year.

I became so fed up with fame, and finding my way through the
commercial successes of myself, when I should have been trying to find my way to the lighthouse above the sea.  Because now I am lost in an increasing wind, and it only blows harder the more I resist.