We are in a revolving door
Sensing what we are
But trying to rotate
In the direction
Of what
We want to be
We reject acceptance
The relative prosperity
With wishes
To be something else
To be
More than who we are
To find the success
Our culture defines
For us
As true and good
It is a misery
To wear clown shoes
We can never fit
To waste our time
Jumping
As high as we can
But never reaching
That impossible dream
But even
If we grasp it
Pulling ourselves
To that level
The pretty bow
Covers a box
Of empty promises
And another ladder
With missing rungs
