On Attempts

The fear of failing is not in the cut
Just as the hope of success is not in the bandage.
Your futile attempts, plotted and executed,
Will only scab over and rot,
Eventually passive enough not to mention.

But scars are their own rewards,
Red badges granted by excitement:
The thrill of falling and bruised skin
Or being mocked for loving something
And never fully understanding it.

So when you try, when you risk yourself,
Do it with a sense of irony.
You know what falling feels like,
And have flesh torn memories to prove it,
So if you fall again, doctor yourself,
Gather yourself, and move on.

There is no reason to pause, defeated and sprawled,
Simply because you know how things are.