You start out as a bike.
Shiny and new.
With ruby red paint and tires dark blue.
A basket, a bell, all the fixins you please.
You ride along the sidewalk with utter ease.
You pedal along and the farther you go,
The more you see, the more you know.
And soon enough you begin to grow.
It’s out with the old and in with the new.
Your brand new shade is an electric blue.
Away with the basket, sayonara to the bell.
You begin to receive compliments on how you’ve changed so well.
You travel on and faster you now go.
The more you see, the more you know.
The training wheels were nice, but it’s time to say goodbye.
It is now when you start to really fly.
You race through the streets.
In the blink of an eye.
Giving only a second for hello and goodbye.
You’ve got places to go and things to see.
Stories to learn and people to be.
You're pedaling harder now.
Trying to keep pace.
The finish line begins to smear in this perpetual race.
Your paint starts to chip but there’s no time to care.
It’s a race to the end, although no one knows where.
Your panting and pleading but there’s nothing you can do.
You can’t stop now, it’s too late to conclude.
Your losing control and beginning to wear.
The fear is overwhelming, your whole body is scared.
You're trying to keep up with the other bikes you see.
They’re faster, and shinier, and brighter, and free.
You’ve changed your color for the 30th time.
You’ve gotten no sleep, it’s much too hard to find.
You pedal, observe, envy, repeat.
You just want to be liked, it’s your greatest need.
Your tires are now blackened, the rubber it tears.
Your handle bars are rusting, your living on a prayer.
Your cracking and breaking and your paint is chipping away.
There’s nothing you can do, nothing they can say.
With each layer that chips and fades away.
Goes a piece of you that you thought was here to say.
Away with the green, the yellow, the blue.
Your about to cry when something shines through.
Ruby red paint mixed with electric blue.
Reminding you of a time when you were you.
No bells, no whistles, no fancy baskets, or galore.
Just you, the sidewalk, and an open door.
You remember a simpler time when you would just glide.
Without stress, competition, and expectations too high.
Without the dread of failure.
Or the fear to fly.
The limit seemed so much higher than the sky.
You could dream and believe that these things would come true.
Without the sharp stab of reality puncturing through.
You wonder what happened.
How everything changed.
Then it hits you and you remember the ultimate truth.
No matter the pressure, the height, or the cry.
Faith in yourself is what allows you to fly.
Not the speed of your pedaling nor the color of your paint.
But the drive within, when the chances are faint.