I would say I love the like the night loves the day,
But we cannot correlate the feelings of all the times I created each one.
My poems were a song of sorrow,
They expressed my deepest anger with the world I used to know.
Although they no longer represent a struggle of strangled words from a parched throat
My poems have forever created a life of their own.
Each word was a mountain,
The spaces, my rivers,
And the sea was my separate stanzas.
I cannot express the growth of my personality,
However I can say that I am far from that child of a depressed mind.
My problems may not be solved,
But times have changed and stress has thinned.
The music I hear, presently, flows freely in my home,
Now with less meaning than I used to give it credit for.
So I will presently express myself again.
I will tell a new life story once more.
As if I am a growing sprout that has rooted to the ground,
I have spread my learning across my tainted soil and cleansed this youthful land.
This world of mine, this budding life, will take a form anew,
And stretch out hands towards the ever endless blue.
These hands of mine, this budding life won't forget the land that was carved out.
The mountains, the rivers, the place itself,
Polished by many hands, but toiled solely by mine
Is a place I shall always recognize, a place within my mind.