If my life is made of patterns

That can scarcely be controlled,

What's the point of trying new things

Or the point of being bold?

There's no need for taking chances

Or exploring what is new

If I only am allowed to do

The things I'm meant to do.



In the silence that envelops

And the emptiness that rules

I can still recall the screaming

Of the crazy, holy fools

And the pounding of my heartbeat

Like the beating of the rain

On the thin tin roof-like cover

That protects my fragile brain.



While I struggled to develop

In a place no one could see,

I held tightly to the image

Of the person I could be;

And the person I could be

Was someone I knew I knew

Would be able to discover

Many patterns as I grew.



As I grew in not-so-straight lines

In a pattern never-seen,

There were people growing with me

In my spaces in-between

Mental image and reality

That live inside my brain

And prevent all of the craziness

From blanketing the sane.



Re-inventing, reconfiguring

My pattern every day.

Reconstructing and re-modeling

In every single way;

And I'm not controlled by patterns,

and my life is all my own.

I am flexible and changeable,

My life's not carved-in-stone.