Believing

the person you used to be

is long gone, and that is not me.

the stranger in the mirror staring back,

with all body parts sore, except for the neck,

has a heartache of happiness,

two Prozac-like pills,

a hat full of rabbits,

going up the hill.

that funny little feeling

of insanity – unwanted healing,

makes you want to stay,

instead you are leaving.

and the one way blindfolded fate,
well that, is called believing.