All this time,
I believed I got it.
I believed I got better.
I am stronger and smarter.

But when I looked at myself,
it weakens my knees that everything inside my head scribbles.
There is a way out of this maze.

I turn into poetry, a clairvoyant
who can only define why I have to get out before the clock strikes twelve, and it takes hard work to get out
I needed to plan. It is possible.
Poetry guaranteed that all I needed to do is to use my senses
to put the pieces back together and find this one way out.