I am the pages of the books I read
to learn to be the one who sat beside me.
I am the words they whispered in my ear,
The lyrics of the songs I hear,
The clay that they have molded rests inside me.
In my youth I had no inkling
of the games they made, the words they played,
But now I know the man who's trapped within.
Let him out.
With the words imprinted in my thoughts,
I'll rearrange those tattered lines
to rhythms of a different kind,
And as the music swells,
I'll make my way,
Through fire, through pain,
Through hell to pay,
To shape my own identity -
and finally find the truth.
The clay's still wet,
It's ripe for molding,
The pages now have stopped their turning,
The future's mine, for me to write,
And I've found my pen.