Inadequacy, will I ever be good enough for you?  You sit there in your stiff chair and stare at me from across the room.  With standards too high, you immediately dismiss me as a louse, a nuisance to society.  Embarrassed at my efforts, you pass me off to Mediocrity.

Mediocrity, will you ever be impressed by me?  You tell me to choose my pursuits wisely, and I do.  Yet you say I am lackluster in appearance, that I am without that special star quality.  Ashamed at the sight of me, you carelessly hand me over to Failure.    

Failure, will you ever stop laughing at my face on the ground?  You relish in my crestfallen expression, almost as if it were a dessert.  Being the glutton that you are, you feast on my fears.  What then is to become of me, when I am but only bones?           

     I am marrow.

Strength.