It’s all a little contrary, crazy kinds of up in the air
See, more oft than not I will stand with a cigarette perched atop my quivering lip and proceed to write – notoriously, all too dreadfully aware of my particularly perilous existence
Unforgiving odds rather haphazardly aside seemingly forever stacked against me
Before I can ever get to roar and unequivocally soar
Deliver on a literary level, nonetheless
Those who truly do know me realise that I can undeed
Breathe a mesmerising rung above
But, most agonisingly of all, I realise it more so than anyone else