He’s trying to make it back home,

Seems life has him by the tail.

He’s had quite a day, concave like a bay,

Yet that goal pegged on the straight line is all he sees.

Finding joy in little things again,

Like standing in the mirror and looking back at self.

I notice these thin lines on my face. I’m growing.

I will let it fall to the ground,
These broken pieces won’t scare me anymore.
There is a story to be told,
I won’t be afraid to let it unfold.
These dark halls, these crumbling walls,
Maybe they won’t fall to the ground at all.

I’d rather you look at me—
Because the way you see me,
You think I’m some type of second best.

I totally cannot fault you,
There’re days I can’t help me too.
When I stand in the mirror,
I’m tempted to go with the rest—
Maybe this cloth has a patch after all.