They say in college I will be free,
they say in high school I will experience,
they say in faded sighs that elementary was long ago,
they say middle school should be a passing trip.
Get in, get out.

And repeat; like a revolver cycling the cylinder,
like a car rounding a hill.
Like a sun spinning for years, of the millions of years it follows.
Like the pointed stare of a disappointed mother, never ceasing.
But alas; always seizing my attention.

That is the grand mystery of life, besides love.
It is the gaze of a stern and bitter wind upon my face,
the rough click of my fingers tapping the keyboard,
and the culling of a feeling that I know I could've felt.

It is the wonder that brings me to tears on the mountain's peak.
It is the feeling of never being able to hike high enough,
to never swim far enough; to never be enough.
And mostly, it is the misery and my affiliation with fame.

Like talent is an old forgotten friend, or technique that flew from
the window like a blue bird released from it's cage.

I am deranged,
scarily deformed mentally.
Horribly scarred along my back.
Reminisce of liars I dare do business with.

The devil himself must have given me these hands,
and these friends,
and these sponsors,
and these slowly closing feelings.

Well, all that is left is the imitator, not the imitated.
Never the imitated would last in a field of growing orchid.
Trace the same scars as the hotel here now,
as I stand on the roof, where one half is missing.

The breeze almost shakes me, and I can see myself fall.