I know little of the world and even less of myself, standing here in the doorway of Hell. Smiling wide to make a point that isn't there, playing pretty beneath a friend's fickle stare. A greatness within is all I can suppose, thinking the best of myself and the worst of everyone else, the other way around on the good days. (But what qualifies a day as 'good'?)
Short sentences made run on in a dash for sense, falling flat on every race. My face is bruised, but that doesn't make me special. No, 'cause I can look around and see that I'm not the only one bearing marks.
We strive, we thrive, and we strive to thrive, just all looking for the same end of a circle. My soul is your soul, and your soul is his - the only difference is a turn of mind.
And my mind is humbled, knows little of the world, less of myself, standing before the door to power. Gaze intent upon a point to be found, alone and not alone... Greatness is all I dare suppose.
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