The fragility of my fists plays with my own immortality.
My spinning head survives on promised immoralities,
And if I keep up the pace, I will persevere, I will push through.
My tongue is made of fire, my will is made of glue.
No, I do not let ignorant men block my paths.
I am seeking a destiny that outruns reason and fact.
If my feet could keep up, they would take me to the place.
But no one sees it, they offer me to leave with grace.
Still, I have no grace, only sharp corners made of iron.
My lips are light-years ahead when it comes to firing.
I shoot everyone who does not keep the final pledge
While not noticing that I am headed towards the ledge.
-JW
The Daily Writing of Jackie Wright 