I'm driven by an image of myself succeeding.

But the girl I'm seeing is a separate being.

She's articulate;

intelligent.

I'm degenerate;

irrelevant.

It's evident: assimilation's eminent

Hope I don't prevent it being ignorant.

I'm driven by success

but I thrive on this feeling

that lives deep inside my being.

Silent, waiting, never sleeping.

Not an emotion; more than a feeling,

a parasitic pet, always feeding.

It hurts.

And what's worse

is there's always someone doing better

who has it worse.

While I toil over things like self-worth

pity me poor me

there are kids living in dirt.

This girl she knows the world extends beyond herself.

Beyond her town:

homelessness

starvation

but I don't here a sound.

I plug my ears I don't want to hear

because it's hard enough for me to wake up

and put my feet on the ground.

I'm driven by success, that's all I think about.

What's success?

To me: happiness.

Happiness?

To create, to make something new and beautiful.

And this girl, she does.

But she is not me; she's a dormant seed inside me.

She's a flower, I'm a weed.

I'm concrete.

She's a dream.

But she's a dream I dream everyday.

I'm lost in the desert and she's the mirage of salvation.

With each step I take I lose hydration,

but without that dream I would've curled up in the heat long ago.

Defeat. Dead beat. Mistreat. Obsolete.

If she's beautiful, maybe I am too.

Or I will be.

But success manifests itself in the form of me.

The one I want to be.

And everyday, all day, success is all I ever think.