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.