You are lost,
not only to me
but to yourself,
your Soul is lost.
And from the choices
    you have made
        you must wander.
The perfect ending to that Book,
      you Will never write
For you no longer have the Will.
...
Or maybe you never had it,
for your Choice was taken,
when that man took you,
the one your mother thought to be true.
And any ounce of it you gained,
   to yet another man
         it was lost.
Not stolen,
but given freely,
because things are only taken from those,
who will not give them up.
For by the time you fancied a man,
you had already resigned to the fate put upon you.
You had given up,
that was when you lost It.
You had a choice,
when you were old enough,
you had the choice to grieve and heal,
that little girl inside of you,
but instead you decided to recreate him
in every man you ever met.
...
So now you will wander,
up and down
that old forgotten sidewalk.
That once led to the house,
you could never make a home.