Why I Write, Part x+90: To Build Myself Back

I've never seen one kid so selfishly down,

Unattached, unconcerned for the others around.

With nothing to offer, I hoarded my pride,

But would soon find one talent I'd like not to hide.

I found I could write, and then out of the blue

Found a few other things I could do.

I could run for long miles. My humor drew laughs,

But the best of the talents emerged as the last:

I found strength inside that could help comfort others

(Though in truth, they'd be better off finding their mothers).

My life clipped right along. I hardly lost speed

When the irony gods gooned up, went after my knee.

What's one serious injury? One more thing to hide.

It never broke, only altered my stride.

So life looked for some way to lower my peg,

and settled on messing up my other leg,

My shoulder, my ribs, my back, and my groin,

Planting strange, inexpressible ideas in me

and then excising my whole short-term memory,

So I'd question the wisdom of fruiting my loins.

With those punches taken, I counterattack.

I'm down and I'm writing to build myself back.