I’m a hunger that’s never quelled, even among the finest fare,
A scratch that never sates the itch, even when the bones are bare
A bird driven by a refusal to land, a diver that never emerges for air
But people tell me I’m very good at what I do.
 
A lack of satisfaction bores the base of my attraction
I’m fueled by lungs lapping at bowls of smoke
And with a deep exhale I’m the finest type of vermicide.
 
Cause stillness is a sudden end for a shark,
And I am the running motor that doesn’t stop,
Standing on the sails of a ship never docked.
I am perpetually forward and oblivious to the periphery,
Trying to grasp something always out of hand, to the point of insanity.
But people tell me I’m very good at what I do.
 
It’s better, I think, not to know
All the ways and hows it prevents you to grow
So few shatter like I do, at the call
When stillness and silence drip from the walls,
Weighs down the veins, envelops the lungs
Into songs of molasses my inadequacies sung.
 
With enough momentum, I’ll never look back
I’ll never stay still, keeping my obstacles stacked.
I’ll never get to linger on the smell of a rose
But I’ll never get acquainted to the thorns that it sows.
 
When the trauma fades into memory and the nightmares subside,
The burdens we bare, the madness we hide,
Manifests itself into something like pride.
Because people tell me I'm very good at what I do.