Flying high in the middle of a low season, but ain't no low low enough to keep the looming lion below the medium of mediocre, migrating toward that golden tower of redemption. Grandstanding amongst men of matter who have truly never ever mattered, is a vision of victory that plays over and over in a head already full of dreamy scenes. I am Spartacus, and every other medal of honor gladiator fighting rat faced weasels in the shady arena of cutthroat where the Heartless bleed dry and the soulless perish, lost, aimlessly roaming with no life, like horror flick zombies. I am a dagger with concrete courage and my sword shall swing swiftly, cutting off the heads of coonish thieves who steal from the mouths that feed them. It's a war against betrayal and deception.
Load the catapult of payback with raging fire and deep desire to win, then aim for that historical place high up in the top ranks of human hierarchy and just let go. Child of a drop out, but I myself refuse to be left out. Cross reference the lessons of life learned against the lessons of life taught to find a place in that center circle of earned success. And I shall always teach myself whenever the substitutes with no class, impersonating teachers, fear the student and whose lesson plan is only to hold them back.
Mission is to fly space high, even when the plan made has been meant to keep things grounded. Father of fearless emotions, but the inner junior still feels around fragile and timid sometimes, too afraid of becoming a senior who still not knoweths how to feel like a grown up. I don't wanna grow up, but I can't always be a Toy's R Us Kid, so I'll hold my nose and eat my wisdom even when the taste of it is hard to swallow, like NyQuil. Every breath spent is a brawling bout with life. And at the moment I am at a crossroad fighting for "Right." Across a stained oak conference table, dividing good verses evil, before me sits a three headed serpent with plastic fangs, but there's no poison in its bite, it's just a poison of life. So with fate tightly clutched in the palms of my fist I will reach across the fort of pressed wood and with my talented hands snap its fake light. Chin up, hand on my hip and foot on its back, gold colored doves will sound the horns, cuing the applause and I shall then humbly rejoice in the sweet victory of its slaying.
