Along the road of the merciless my feet bare, cut, callused drifting upon the dirt

The itch I have long chased has been a millennia 

Making the journey wearing the shoes of travelers before

I have worn them down but to a sole

But mine still goes on

 

Weighing up the match between a stag and young buck

The hunters mock and geese at the sight of my eyes and smile

For it holds to much immaturity of a child, not enough bearing

But yet they have not recognized the young does they have become

 

Farther down the path, further to the light

The stones I pass have turned, more sturdier than the last lifted

A mark in a stones miles for the time I’ve spent playing hopscotch in the gravel of comments

Having the time to count each one is a waste of the future

 

Climbing to see the views of critics has always been stuffy like smoke in the woods

Each breathe in is more toxic in each serving

I like the rivers along the road much better, you can see the reflection of whose in charge of these feet

So what if mine are not clean as the moon's glow but scrapped as a Birch tree’s bark

these scars have legacy's in each ridge of parchment

 

Long curves and cracks makes the struggle of growing come to a halt

I however enjoy the mark of a mountains challenge

Tedious as it may be to get dirt in the wound after trial and error

Emotions hurt and memories stay burned into the skin

The journal which I walk will be a grand tale to show to lambs who wish to pass the lions den without fear 

come to realize trotting in danger doesn't make you more of a lion yourself