Ironic don’t you think?Even clippedThese wings instinctively move with the wind,They’re slapping at my faceHoping I fall from the skyPulling but I keep pushing Must be hunting seasonFeels like I’ve got a target on my backCritics don’t cut me any slackI just smile and keep writingSilently flying On my way to the topIt’s a lonely rideBut I’m not ready to stop.