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There were days when my hands would fall
And left to right, they'd refuse to rise
Scribbles were my fodder then
And what kept me so alive
The bits of scratch and stains alike
They'd remind me why I stayed so still
It wouldn't help to pace all forth
Without a figure staring back at me
The sickness then, the longing now
It's what I was at such an age
And all but lost, I had forgotten that
Which defined me time again
I'd been shot down at the prime of light
Denied by self and my own fool sight
I'd listen to the darkest hiss
And keep it there all night
But folded up and torn away
I did my best to try
The god damn blocks that stopped me there
What are they to me now?
The matter is what I choose to do
A solitary me
And what it may, and what I am
Will be decided in an instant.
