This began my voice.
The one of three young boys,
Who spent the days outside, right in the sun,
Having nothing out there but complete fun.
This began my voice.
That was marked  by fear with no similar choice,
Which trailed on from such a small fright,
When disturbed from slumber in the middle of the night.

This was my voice.
One older, with just a little more choice.
Louder, smarter, and a little more poise;
Still hears Halloween with rejoice.
This was my voice.
And should one day come with a soldier of war,
I would get up, and rally for more.
Fighting for justice in areas unknown,
Traveling miles in vehicles flown.

This is my voice.
Done with the trials of man,
Even after thinking, even after kicking the can,
All because of my stupid choice.
This is my voice.
Screaming out at the infinite universe,
Hoping someone or something would relieve my curse.
Wondering if any out there can be my nurse,
Calling out every god as impossibly subverse.

This became my voice.
Aspiring, hopeful, successful, forever.
For dying, quote-full, extensive-full, light as a feather.
Who knows the better?
This became my voice.
Outside a whirlwind of fire and ice,
Inside a catacomb for a quickly dying device.
Waiting for a call to adventure - a revival letter.
Although I know the better.

This will be my voice.
Reminiscing the times of three young boys,
Wanting to run, jump, but bound down without toys.
This will be my voice.
The one strangled and mangled by cords,
Sitting by all those rewards,
That mean nothing.
Nothing that represented my voice.