I dislike putting one foot in front of the other,
Or progressing at the rhythm of a steady pace,
I cannot maintain a slow trudge
Especially along a well-trodden path;
I would much rather race you to the finish line.
I cannot, will not, bare to stand still,
I have a crystallised, framed vision,
So chiselled into my muddled mind
That it could almost be a beautiful reality.
Slow progress is not a friend to my brain,
It feels like slowly descending a fairytale hill,
Warped, twisting my subconscious into guilt.
No, I prefer to immerse myself completely,
Even if I plunge across the hill’s other side
In my haste to reach the summit.