Come and meet my life my friend. I am losing battles daily.
I have forgotten how to ask for bread.
I've been feeding on rotten meat and vegetation.
Gorging on that which makes my belly ache, and later I see it all again,
paraded before my eyes as evidence exhibits,
condemning me in my inner disease.
My very skin crawls as if I am covered in scarab beetles.
There is always a storm cloud gathering, and the sun burns, and rains freeze my soul.
Even the wind stirs up only the fetid air and the current pulls silt from the bed, polluting my equanimity.

This far in I know there is still hope.
You hate that I feel this way toward myself: a son and brother rescued and in restoration.
Mayhap the sun can gently warm?
The rains cleanse and feed?
Winds blow away the cobwebs with their insect carcasses?
And the currents of life wash me to your shore.