My Money’s On Me

I’ve been known to draw blood in the form of tears. 

It happens. 

I don’t know how to be a simple bystander when I can be a man of action. 

My methods will never, ever be conventional. 

I am passionate and headstrong and fierce and loud and finger-pointing. 

I’m a wrecking ball atop the bull in the china shop. 

Tact and manners fail me at the best of times and they simply have to lack grace. 

Still, I am true. 

I make no apologies for my ways if the result is to be achieved. 

I can’t be that solution of last resort when all others have failed and be expected to play by the rules. 

That does not make me a boot camp. 

That makes me credible and successful and unwavering and courageous. 

Pity is for heartstrings and when I’m aiming for a goal, I have to shut off that valve. 

The soundtrack of accomplishment doesn’t always come with the Rocky fanfare but rather with the whisper of a scream. 

A swift kick in the posterior can be delivered through words. 

I know, I’m the Uwe von Schamann of my crowd, someone who will get a lazy butt through those goal posts. 

I also know I won’t be forgotten in the room where they gather to mourn or celebrate my absence. 

My silence will be deafening. 

My ways may even be adopted. 

Someone will take my place and be the bearer of the poor delivery wrapped in the best of intentions. 

It’s the invention of the hot dog all over again. 

For now, however, I’m still here. 

And for as long as you continue to be you…

I will continue to be me. 

Given those odds, my money’s on me. 

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