Ballad of a self made man

It started with a prick But that's how it always starts He never did have one, not at birth But a prick is where it starts

A needle, or perhaps the gel That coats his calloused hands A few months in, his throat, it aches He straightens where he stands

The changes happen slowly And not without a fight He loses friends and family But the weight he bears grows light

A man is forged in fire Or made with fear and stress This man is made of hope and truth Etched upon his chest

He does not lose his history Of who he used to be He holds that wandering spirit close And sets her ever free