Events passed by like a car on the highway,

Loss of words kept me from catching up.

Everything I did was a mistake,

And lack of confidence made it a vicious cycle to cut.

But time goes on with no concern for personal problems,

Because problems are subjective and time is not.

So I learned to adapt,

And learned to create time out of my own rot.

Spontaneous recreation remade me in new flesh,

Not physical flesh but the metaphysical type,

Into a new incarnation of myself.

So I became one with who I am and what I write.

Fiction told my truth through a veil of stories.

I wrote my life onto pages of heroes and the hated.

I spoke my life on pages,

And through writing I was spontaneously recreated.