Am I falling short, or do I fly?
While I miss the mark, do I hit the sky?
In my wondering, do I answer why?
I’m alive.

Make a space, boonswaggle back,
leave a sign, dodge the wrath
of myself, and leave the math to God.

Falling short, I hit the spot
of the place where I was shot
from the womb of my mother.
I’ve fallen short.
But is there another place where I can be?
Is short just the place for me, it seems?
Where can I do what I’ve been given, my holy view of ever giving

Am I falling short, or do I fly?
While I miss the mark, do I hit the sky?
In my wondering, do I answer why?
I’m alive.