Everybody knows this kind of feeling;

The feeling of loss,

The feeling of resentment.

Everybody knows the feeling of neglect.

Of tension.

Detention,

Or falling in depression.

But do you know

Of the thought of Success?

Of the feel of her lips,

Of the pain in her breast?

She knows it too;

All through and through….

Success;

She cast her golden stare down on me!

Success;

The one who brings us milk and honey!

Success;

She'll follow me straight to the grave!

Success;

Deserves better than what I gave.

Again she proves me wrong.

And she tells me through a smile,

"Stand up, stand up real strong.

And you'll see in a while…"

"See what?" I ask.

"Of what?" I ask.

In denial, I've lost the race.

Kiss me again, oh dearest.

You know where; right on my lips.

Tell me, where else should you kiss?

So just kiss me again, my dearest.

Success is not success.

She is not one to be dressed.

She dresses on her own accord,

But maybe she needs some help?

To the failures, she screams,

"Leave me, you whelp!"

Directed to me, she screamed these words.

Is it me or her who needs help?

"Why?" I wonder.

After years and years of love.

But that was when she kicked my throat

And slapped me with a glove.

"You let the love of others

Get to you," she snorts.

"How typical."

Remember that golden stare?

Success kept it in our divorce.

It was her tenth breakup in a year—

And I wonder, with a throat so hoarse.

"Is Success a whore?

Or is she depressed?

Will she ever find the right one?"