I wish I had to time to get back on feet;

get back in my sneaks, and get back to the streets

but I seemed to have noticed my feet are asleep

so my meet with the street cannot be complete.

I wish I had time to think up a rhyme

that could spark up the minds of those who are nine.

But unfortunately my hands have been tied

and my pad and my pen are not by my side.

So what will I write, and then what will I say

to the people who ask when I’m older in days?

"What did you?" and "Why are you great?"

"Did you plan out your life or was it just fate?"

Then I'll tell them to wait, as my mind contemplates

a reply to supply their inquisitive state.

"So sorry," I'll state, "see my life's been a fake!"

I stopped counting my years way way before eight.

Along I stopped also consuming the cake,

And haven't kept track of the steps that I've taked.

"So what you are saying is that you're not real?"

They'll ask inbetween while spieling my spiel.

"Of course I am real!", I'll add and reveal

the fact I have thoughts, and the fact that I feel!

"But how are you real if you have no past?

No stories, no thoughts, no treasure to pass?

A man with no past is a house with no base;

you're merely a body attached to a face."

I'd have no reply 'cause of course he was right.

I'd have no re-telling my story of life.

So that's why I write.

I write cause Im real.

I write cause im human.

I write cause I feel.

I write cause I think and have reason to share.

I write cause I know and I write cause I care.

I can't leave my past right here where it is.

I have to keep hold and share with my kids.

I’m who I am now, cause of who I once was.

Because of the people, the people who judged.

And the smearless veneer I’ve rightfully smudged.

So yea i'll keep writing.

Again AND again.

Relentlessly writing until my ink ends...