Here's the poem I found, pencilled in my Pukka pad, that was written a couple of years ago now. I know that it looks like I was in a rather strange mood when I wrote it, but then that tends to be the only times I write them.

when

I hate waiting for a phone that never rings
I hate waiting for things life cannot bring
I hate the way my impatience makes me feel
When will I find out who I am for real?

For all the good days, there will always be bad
For all the happiness I bring, I'll always make people mad
For all my contentment, there will always be strife
When will I find out what I want from my life?

I love the way that my friends make me feel
From just sending emails to cooking me a meal
But I hate the way that I always want more
When I will I like myself enough to be sure?

I've so much love to give and so want to be loved
But all my live I've been pushed and shoved
Not really by others, but all on my own
When will I admit I can't be happy alone?

'When' is a question I may never answer
Even though I live my life faster and faster
The fact that I can see my problems is good
I just don't resolve them as fast as I could