This one goes out off my pen to my friend Steve. A drummer, may he keep beating out his self to the rest of the world, our wealth. Told him, I’d write a poem. Amen.
Success
What’s money, got to do, got to do with it?
What success but a misplaced commotion?
Success.
It isn’t a pissing contest that you just won. Nor getting your arm raised.
It really isn’t a verb, a noun, an adjective or even a definition - despite what you’ve been told.
It isn’t being quicker, being a bootlicker or drinking lots of liquor.
It isn’t being the best, nor not at home with the rest, As on every test.
It’s not being on the stage, getting paid, laid or having it made.
It isn’t love or being loved or loving or any other rosy proclamation.
It isn’t even the long line of women outside your Belvedere hotel door.
It isn’t running the 4 minute mile or the car in your driveway.
It’s certainly not being the life of the party or even the leader of a party.
It isn’t throwing your credit card down without a care in the world.
It’s not where you rest your laurels or handing out just deserts.
Forget about golden spoons or a silky smile or a brillant mind. It ain’t those.
It’s definitely not finishing a novel or finishing anything at all.
Success? What is it?
Success is getting up in the morning and doing whatever the hell you want.
[And if you are successful enough having someone on your arm that wants you to, too.]