No, It's Just Different

Tick marks etched in a wall,
in a closet, in a room, in my mind.
I’ll carve in just one more before I shut the door.
I realize that that folly uncertainty
has certainly made me half the man i used to be.
The other half was made up
by all those pleasurable mistakes I made on purpose;
just to serve a purpose, of course,
enough to ruin myself
enough to justify, at least… well, just one more time —
an etched tick mark that I hide behind a closed closet door.
I’ve learned my lessons, and I have the scars to prove it.
But I’ll never take back what it was I carved onto a wall
in a closet, in a room, in my mind.
that folly uncertainty
has certainly made me half the man i used to be.
The art is not dead, no — it’s just different;
at least it is to me.
Once more a confession I hide behind;
another confession I hide behind
these strings I call a door.
I found what I was looking for, dear mother:
Words that can wage war on each other, and I’m gone.