With muscles fueled

By music (predominantly the heart),

I built up enough strength

To be able to stand up without

My head drooping down.


I suffered through heartache and grief

To finally be strong enough

To sit here unashamed,

Belting out my own melodies

As if they were being regurgitated from my chest.


The ones who truly loved me stay,

Hand in hand, pressed against the barricade.

While the ones who never did left

(And frankly, weren’t invited to begin with).


It took 23 years before the re-entry rules

Stopped being a pain in the ass.


I pick at the calluses on my fingertips

And the bruise on my forearm

Wondering which one i’ll write about next.


Some day I’ll write a happy little tune.

Something where the words aren’t so sad for once.

And I know that day is coming.

For the first time in 23 years,

I don’t feel alone, or hurt or bothered.

I feel peace. I feel santity.


I feel like me.


The heart wants what it wants,

And my god, it’s got it.