Rising once again despite my wounds,

the first step is always the hardest.

The mist of many battles grasps my feet,

whilst fighting my own ambivalence and depression,

and casting aside the derision and oppression of others.

Healing they want not.

I bare my scars and they turn away,

not in the anguish of all my ugliness,

but in fear of an unstoppable force.

I trod forth, each step louder than before.

Falling is an expectation of others.

Rising is an expectation of myself.

I am the trumpet echoing Armageddon,

and the quivering earth that makes others tremble.

Forces march against me in endless battles for my resolve.

With each strike I weaken,

only to be strengthened as each scar takes its rightful place.

I am not oak to withstand mighty storms,

or porcelain to shatter at slightest touch.

I am flesh and bone of imperfect design.

In a place of my own possession,

I stand unarmed and vulnerable.

Yet I survive.

I am a vessel within beats a heart and a will.

I am risen again.

I am untouchable.