I want to fly so high,
higher than the stars that twinkle so brightly,
as if they are challenging me to try and reach them.
No one thinks I can go that high;
they don't even believe that I can get two feet off the ground.
That what they imply,
but I know why they say I won't ever get off the ground
so I shouldn't even dream.
They have let themselves down far too many times,
digging a hole deeper and deeper,
far and far away from the sky.
They don't want me to touch the sky
because they don't want me to achieve my dream,
when they couldn't and won't even try to brush against it.
the ones that have put themselves so low,
that they don't know how to climb out.
So they lash out,
striking at others who they see as someone they could have been.
I won't let them pull me down,
chaining me to the Earth and tear away at me
as if I was Prometheus and they, my razor sharp eagle.
I will fly,
even if I have to build my own wings.
They won't be made of feathers,
they won't be pretty and shining.
they will be made of dreams,
and battle scars.
They will be proof that I will fight to touch the farthest star,
not buried six feet under broken things.
It may not happen now,
or this week,
or even in the next year,
but I will fly.
I won't be an angel,
with pretty and neat little wings,
but I will be achiever,
Someone soaring with hand crafted wings.