Failure. It is a stab in the heart, A brand burned into the very soul, That bleeds and torments its victim. It is a festering wound, Bound to scar at best and slay at worst The hope and, at times, even the life Of the one who is afflicted by it. It is a nightmare, A demon haunting every dream and thought, Man’s greatest fear, His most hated adversary. It is a stumbling block to the weary, A crushing blow for the proud, But a stepping stone for those who persevere And a whetstone for the wisdom of those who will themselves to carry on. To those whose spirit is paper-thin, It is a fire that will burn them to ashes, But to those whose spirit is like iron, It is a forge that purges all impurities from them, Crafting them into a weapon for victory.
Failure is a warm wind on a hot summer day. The remembrance of a passing breeze only sours the fresh outbreak of sweat on the brow. Every breeze past and future is diminished by the passing of a warm wind. The preemptive relaxation spoiled by an increase in pressure. Failure builds against the thoughts and visions to taint success with desperation.
As a warm wind on a midsummer’s day Failure passes relief to engage the sweat Breezes are diminished in time’s long way Hope, then a curse, ever tainted with fret.
It is a voice in the back in my mind. It is the echo from my past that haunts me. It is the reason I don’t try. It is the old man who sits in the back of the room, smirking when you stand up to speak, or sing, or present the project you sweated blood to complete. Failure has smacked me around more than once. It has bloodied my mouth, blackened my eyes, given me a limp, left me with a bruised and broken body. And yet, if I do his bidding, I will never succeed. For success and failure are siblings. Success is the beautiful sister that everyone wants to date. She is the queen of the prom, the girl who rides on the float, the head cheerleader. She is every boy’s—and girl’s—dream. Failure is her big, ugly brother. He stands in the road, taunting you, egging you to try and get past him. Everyone wants her. No one wants him. And yet, to get her, you have to confront him. And get beaten up from time to time. Because every time you get your nose bloody, or an eye blackened, you learn something. You grow into a person who someday will not only get past the bully, but will get to a day when you can beat him up, humiliate him, bully the bully. And the girl—success—will be yours. The trouble is, there’s always another, more beautiful girl somewhere down the road. And her brother is bigger and badder than ever before.
"The only true equalisers in the world are books; the only treasure-house open to all comers is a library; the only wealth which will not decay is knowledge; the only jewel which you can carry beyond the grave is wisdom." - J. A. Langford
Circulating circulating like that of war planes hovering down to unleash your mayhem The bullets penetrating my soul and mind The hot lead of these instrumental projectiles burns me yet leek into my blood steam flowing free to every corner Yes and this product of you takes me down down down to see old hob But how is it that you are friendly fire!, revolutionaries anarchists in my mind Taking my own citizens in bloody conflict against my very being How dare you shove this, your majesty to the ground? Worse still you think to retreat rather than finish me, to let me wallow in hope, to further your destruction at later dates You sir are the epitome of my nemesis You are my demon The one I hate because of your success in blinding me form success I am like Tesla and you like Edison You stop me in my walk by dashing my head