I peer in through the bolted door
And wonder, staring at the floor
Afraid of things I cannot see . . .
Of who disease has made of me . . .
I walk into the barren room
And find a womb that's safe and warm:
A welcome shelter from the storm.
To stay there could keep me from harm . . .
It'd be so easy just to hide.
To venture outside could contain
Frustration, relapse, perhaps pain.
But even so, I can't remain . . .
My living shall be positive.
For I'm resolved to live and grow.
Perhaps someone will pause to know
And allow me space so I can show . . .
That I still have so much to give.
