Early on

We, some of us,

Lie with false integrity

Existing, but not living,

A life allotted to us.

Seated as a stump

That is a tree not cut down,

Rather, only part of a being

Apprehensive to stem into anything more.

Year after year, Ring after ring,

Devoid of development

We sit

Filling with emotion…

Until Finally

Exhausted of this fabricated lifestyle

Our stumps reshape;

A form not yet seen before

As we break out of the

Former life

Screaming to attest

A life that is real.